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TANK TALES 


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“TANK MAJOR’ 

AND 

ERIC WOOD 


New York 

& WAGNALLS COMPANY 








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Bebicatet) 

by permission to the 

Right Honourable WINSTON S. CHURCHILL, M.P., 
who championed the Tanks at a time 
when they had but few 
supporters 


t{ 



CONTENTS 


PAGE 


i. Introduction .... 

. 

1 

2. The High Street of Flers . 


9 

3. Youth 


. 19 

4. For Valour .... 


• 25 

5. Supplies 


• 33 

6. Craft 


. 40 

7. Misty Morn .... 


• 5 o 

8. Jimmy Sutherland 


60 

9. Help from the Air 


. 69 

10. Before Breakfast . 


• 77 

11. Brown, Red, and Green 


. 86 

12. Communication 


. 99 

13. 'Ditched .... 


. 109 

14. The Charge of the Light Brigade 

. 123 

15. Failure .... 


. 132 

16. Rest 


. 140 

17. An Allied Operation 


• 152 

18. A Bit of Bluff 

. 

. 166 


Contents 


FAGE 


viii 


19. The Trophy . 

• 

. 174 

20. After the Day's Work . 


. 182 

21. Salvage 

♦ . 

. 190 

22. Tank v. Tank 


• 199 

23 The Great Ditch . 


. 207 


TANK TALES 


INTRODUCTION 


“ Since the opening o f our offensive on 8th August Tanks have 
been employed in every battle, and the importance of the fart 
flayed by them in breaking the resistance of the German infantry 
can scarcely be exaggerated. The whole scheme of the attack of 
8th August was dependent upon Tanks, and ever since that date 
on numberless occasions the success of our infantry has been power- 
fully assisted or confirmed by their timely arrival. So great has 
been the effect produced u-pon the German infantry by the appear- 
ance of British Tanks that in more than one instance, when for 
various reasons real Tanks were not available in sufficient numbers, 
valuable results have been obtained by the use of dummy Tanks 
painted on frames of wood and canvas. 

“ It is no disparagement of the courage of our infantry or of 
the skill and devotion of our artillery, to say that the achievements 
of those essential arms would have fallen short of the full measure 
of success achieved by our Armies had it not been for the very 
gallant and devoted work of the Tank Corps, under the command 
of Major-General H. f . Elies .” — Extract from Sir (Douglas Haig’s 
despatch dated Dec. 21, 1918. 

The first appearance of the Tank on the battlefield 
gave a thrill of pride to the British people. The 
Germans were ahead of us with heavy guns, ahead of 
us with machine-guns, first in the field with gas, 
but at last we had produced something which the 
Germans had not got. 

His Majesty the King interpreted the feelings of 

1 


2 Tank Tales 

the people in his message after the launching of the 
Tanks in the Battle of Cambrai, when he referred to 
the pride felt because the Tanks were a British 
invention. The first impression of the public was 
right — we had produced something which was to 
prove of immense value on the battlefield, something 
which was indeed to mean almost a revolution in 
warfare, and was destined before the glorious end of 
the struggle to convert the War of Trenches into a 
War of Movement. 

Perhaps the Censor was to blame, but the fact 
remains that amongst the innumerable newspaper 
articles which described the advent of the Tanks, 
there was not a single one which discussed, soberly 
and with intelligence, the military meaning of this 
new weapon of warfare. The correspondents ran 
riot amongst such expressions as “Gargantuan 
Monsters,” “Gigantic Behemoths,” “Chariots of 
Moloch,” always emphasising the grotesque nature 
of the Tanks’ appearance, and neglecting to explain 
the very real military value of this new weapon. 

The fact is that the Tanks came as too much of a 
surprise; the secret was too well kept, and the idea 
of their grotesque nature came uppermost and held 
the popular imagination to the gradual exclusion of 
the correct first impressions. The very name “Tank ” 
was extraordinary, and rather absurd, so that this 
idea was still more encouraged. 

And so the Tank became rather something to be 
laughed at. A description had always to refer to its 
queer wobbling gait; and civilians and soldiers alike 


Introduction 


3 


came to regard these new weapons as something 
freakish, though terrible — to be classed with some 
new, queer sort of trench mortar, or a particularly 
obnoxious flame-thrower. This emphasis on the 
'strangeness of the Tank has delayed the recogni- 
tion of the fact that an armoured cross-country 
'machine is simply the logical development of modern 
warfare. 

Many centuries ago the introduction of armour 
gave an enormous advantage to the knight as com- 
pared with the unarmoured peasant, and there is a well 
recorded incident in early history of 28 knights in 
armour who encountered a band of 1,200 peasants 
and killed or wounded 800 of them without suffering 
a single casualty themselves. Improvement in missile 
weapons destroyed the value of armour, which only 
became a hindrance to the wearer instead of a pro- 
tection. . s 

For many years armour disappeared from the 
battlefield, but even in this war, before the days 
of Tanks, it began to reappear in the shape of steel 
helmets, loophole plates, and steel breastplates which 
gave some protection against splinters or spent 
bullets. Man was not strong enough to carry the 
weight of armour necessary for complete protection, 
so the logical solution was to substitute a petrol 
engine for his muscles, and we got the Tank. 

The Tank is simply a suit of armour provided 
with motive power to carry the man inside. 

Incidentally the Tank also provides the man inside 
with a mounting for his machine-gun, so that he can 


4 Tank Tales 

fire as he moves forward, and a f good supply of 
ammunition to feed the gun. Moreover, the Tank 
can move through barbed-wire entanglements, which 
would otherwise be a complete obstacle to men and 
horses, and moving through the wire it leaves a path 
where men can follow. But the Tank is essentially 
a suit of armour, and just as the 28 knights in history 
overcame 1,200 peasants, so in this war we have had 
a case where 21 men in Tanks completely routed 2,000 
Germans who were armed with rifles and machine- 
guns. 

Does the Field gun or Anti-tank gun provide an 
antidote to the Tank? To find the answer to this 
question we must turn to the Navy — did the first shot 
which pierced the armour of a ship put an end to 
armoured ships? Certainly not. For fifty years the 
struggle between armour and guns has raged at sea, 
and we can be sure that a similar battle for supremacy 
will be waged on land. At sea, after armour had 
become thicker and thicker to resist the shell, we 
began to see ships built without armour and trusting 
to their speed and manoeuvring capacity to avoid 
the shell. Similarly on land it is quite likely that 
Tanks will be developed along the lines of speed 
and manoeuvring ability as well as by increase of 
armour. 

But this chapter is intended to be an introduction 
to the Tank tales which follow, and not a military 
treatise on the tactical power of the Tank in warfare. 
These tales are all founded on actual incidents which 
have occurred in the fighting of the last two years, 


Introduction 5 

and they are intended to tell something of what has 
been done by the men inside the Tank. 

For this over-emphasis on the grotesque and 
impersonal side of the Tank has caused a certain 
amount of neglect of the part played by the officers 
and men of the Tank Corps. General von der 
Marwitz made the admission that “by the use of 
innumerable Tanks the British have gained a victory 
near Cambrai.” Ludendorff says in his communique, 
“Masses of enemy Tanks forced us to retire.”^ Our 
own G.H.Q. report states, “Tanks co-operated in the 
attack.” The public read these reports and drew up 
a picture of a waddling, toad-like machine, spitting 
fire as it crawls over the ground, but hardly realised 
that there were British officers and men inside those 
Tanks, working the guns and running the engines; 
officers and men face to face with death, for when 
the Tanks appeared all the guns of the enemy con- 
centrated their fire against them and at any moment 
a shell might have ground its way through the steel 
plate and, killed the crew inside. British officers and 
men, too, were at the workshops to repair the Tanks 
if they were damaged; British officers and men at the 
headquarters and training camps to control the 
various units, and ensure that every member of the 
Tank Corps knew how to use his weapons to the best 
advantage. 

When the public thinks of a locomotive they 
associate with it the engine-driver and stoker; they 
think of a motor-lorry, and conjure up a picture of 
the man at the wheel. A Tank, however, seems so 


6 Tank Tales 

beast-like as it crawls over the ground that one is apt 
to forget that it would be simply a lump of iron 
without the crew inside to control it. 

All regiments of the Army are represented among 
the personnel of the Tank Corps, and in two years 
of fighting these were welded together into a regi- 
ment, filled with fine traditions and esprit de corps , 
under their Colonel-in-Chief, the King. 

Between September 15, 1916, and November 11, 
1918, the Tank Corps has grown from a small affair 
of four companies to a large Corps of many battalions. 
During this period the Tanks topk part in 19 pitched 
battles and 66 minor engagements, while officers and 
men of the Corps won 4 V.C.’s, 53 D.S.O.’s, 315 
M.C.’s, 81 D.C.M.’s, and about 500 Military Medals 
and other decorations. 

Many a deed of heroism performed inside a Tank 
must have gone unrewarded — the charred and 
blackened hulks of iron lying derelict on the battle- 
fields of France and Belgium remaining the sole 
memorials to many great deeds and noble men. But 
these Tanks and their crews played their part before 
the end came; a derelict does not necessarily mean 
failure. Some Tanks have fought throughout a 
battle, only to be knocked out right at the end of 
the day which they had helped to win ; others by 
attracting to themselves the concentrated fury of 
enemy guns have enabled the infantry to pass on to 
victory unscathed. 

The greatest part played by the Tank Corps in 
these battles has been their power of saving the lives 


Introduction 7 

and limbs of their comrades in the infantry. Did a 
belt of barbed wire hold up the advance — a Tank went 
forward to flatten down a path. Was a machine-gun 
spitting death, so that our infantry could not move — 
forward a Tank to crush the machine-gun crew out 
of existence. Had the advance gone so far that it 
had outreached the limit of the artillery barrage — 
the Tanks with their 6-pounders and machine-guns 
provided a substitute. 

“After the trench was captured they dug out, in 
a length of 80 yards, 26 German machine-guns which 
had been crushed down by the Tank.” So runs the 
extract from an official report. Think of these 26 
machine-guns, each firing at the rate of 300 rounds a 
minute, and consider what the Tank did to save the 
infantry casualties in the capture of that trench. 

Many will be inclined to ask why the Germans 
were so slow in building Tanks and starting a Tank 
Corps. We can now provide a fairly accurate answer 
to that question — it was chiefly owing, to their 
shortage of materials and lack of spare munition 
works. They were undoubtedly slow to realise the 
importance of the Tank, and when they did realise it 
they were forced to devote their efforts to trying to 
combat the attacks of our Tanks and those of the 
French, instead of manufacturing some for them- 
selves. At a time when they were actually breaking 
up battleships to get material for the construction of 
submarines it was not possible to provide also for 
Tanks; it was a case of Submarines or Tanks, and 
the submarines won. 


8 Tank Tales 

By August of 1918, however, they realised their 
mistake, and it was on the subject of Tanks that, for 
the first time during the war, the German military 
correspondents dared to criticise the Higher Com- 
mand. In October a debate took place in the Reichs- 
tag, and judging even from the censored reports of 
the speeches which appeared in the Press, the German 
Minister of War was pretty severely handled for the 
way in which this important weapon had been 
neglected. 

All honour, therefore, to British inventors and 
British manufacturers who produced the Tank; all 
honour to the Navy, who were the first to see the 
possibilities of these weapons. Perhaps it was natural 
that it should be the Navy that saw the advantage of 
a machine which could cruise anywhere on land, as 
her ships cruise on the sea; certainly if the Navy had 
not provided money for the early experiments, the 
advent of the Tank would have been long delayed. 

But above all, honour to those gallant officers and 
men of the Tant Corps, who by their valour on the 
field of battle invested the Tanks with the power of 
victory. 


THE HIGH STREET OF FLERS 


Dick Rutherford bought his uniform as a Second 
Lieutenant in November, 1915, and went to Bisley to 
join the Motor Machine-Gun Corps. The M.M.G.C. 
was a branch of the service that had grown up during 
the War, and it had conjured up to Dick Rutherford a 
picture of himself dashing up a road on a motor bi- 
cycle at the rate of twenty-five miles an hour, clapping 
on the brakes as he came upon a battalion of Germans 
halted by the roadside, and with a few short, 
sharp bursts from the machine-gun mounted by 
his side, creating unparalleled slaughter in the 
enemy’s ranks. 

Actually, it wasn’t a bit like that. 

In fact, Rutherford hardly saw a machine-gun 
for his first few weeks, but spent most of his time 
on the square, learning something about drill and 
discipline. 

Machine-gun practice came later, however, and 
Rutherford quickly became not only an adept at the 
actual shooting, but also an expert at dealing with 
those mysterious jams and stoppages which occasion- 
ally interrupt the working of the delicate Vickers 
mechanism. During the spring of 1916 came rumours 
that no more Motor Batteries were to be formed, more 
rumours that all the surplus officers at Bisley were 
9 


B 


io Tank Tales 

to be sent off to different units, and then in May 
came the strangest rumour of all, which suddenly 
ceased to be a rumour and became a real, solid, 
astonishing fact. It was on May io that Dick 
Rutherford, together with a number of other 
officers, was summoned for an interview with the 
Colonel. 

To all these officers their Colonel had been known 
for some time as the author of a number of books, 
and also as an Eye Witness in the early part of the 
war. Now, however, he was to be revealed in a new 
light, as the ardent apostle of a new weapon of 
warfare — the Tank. The Colonpl explained to these 
officers something about the new invention which was 
to solve the problems of barbed wire and machine- 
guns; he told them that they had been selected to 
train with these new machines, and to take them into 
battle when the time came to go to France. At the 
same time he impressed on them the absolute 
necessity for secrecy — this was vital to their success, 
and their own safety depended to a large extent 
on the Tanks appearing on the battlefield as a 
surprise. 

Soon afterwards Dick Rutherford went with some 
of the other officers to a desolate place in Norfolk, 
where they saw their first Tank. This machine, 
known as “Big Willie,” was one of the first experi- 
mental machines to be constructed, and was the model 
from which all the later improved types have been 
evolved. 

Hundreds of soldiers had been employed to con- 


/ 


The High Street of Flers ir 

vert the training ground into a miniature battlefield, 
complete with trenches, strong-points, and barbed- 
wire entanglements. No place in England was more 
jealously guarded than these few square miles, where 
officers and men learnt to drive their Tanks. The 
whole area was enclosed with barbed wire, and 
armed sentries kept guard night and day lest this 
great secret should come to light before its time. 

Officers and men were kept hard at work and 
leave was a thing unknown ; and the strictest care 
was taken lest, even in a letter, some reference to their 
strange occupation should leak out to the rest of 
England. 

At the beginning of June the Tank Sections were 
made up, very many of the new-comers being raw 
recruits. 

Rutherfoird was acting as Section Commander at 
the time, and he had a batch of about thirty, all of 
whom were privates. The first thing to be done was 
to pick out a few to act as N.C.O.’s; so Rutherford 
paraded the party and walked round asking the men 
what had been their jobs in civil life. Many of the 
men had been mechanics, some called themselves 
motor-engineers, but nobody appeared suitable to 
take on the job of Section Sergeant until Ruther- 
ford came to a burly-looking fellow near the end 
of the line. 

“And what were you doing before you joined 
up? ” asked Rutherford. 

“Oh, I was keeping a pub in Merthyr,” replied 
the man. 


12 Tank Tales 

“First-rate,” said Rutherford. “Anyone who can 
keep a pub in Merthyr ought to be all right. We’ll 
try you as Section Sergeant.” 

It speaks well for Rutherford’s judgment and the 
“pubs” in Merthyr that this man became a first- 
class sergeant, was awarded the D.C.M. for excep- 
tional gallantry in action, and eventually became an 
officer. 

Rutherford, a little later, had an interesting fort- 
night at Whale Island, where he learned from the 
Navy how to fire the 6-pounder gun with which some 
of the Tanks were to be armed. 

Soon afterwards the first batch of twenty-five 
Tanks arrived at the training ground, and a few 
days later some distinguished Generals from France 
came to witness a demonstration of what they might 
expect from these new weapons when they were 
launched into the great Somme battle which had just 
started. 

These first Tanks had “To Petrograd ” printed 
on their sides in Russian characters, a device 
that had been adopted so that when these strange 
machines were travelling through England by railway 
the idea might spread that they were a new type 
of armoured car for use on the Russian front. The 
very name of “Tank” was invented from motives of 
secrecy, so that telephone conversations and tele- 
grams might appear perfectly innocent to the most 
suspicious mind. 

At this time, also, a famous artist was imported 
from London to convert a local barn into a studio, 


The High Street of Flers 13 

and comouffage the Tanks’ ungainly yet distinctive 
appearance. 

Then came daily rumours of their departure for 
France, and many were the discussions in the Officers’ 
Mess as to what would be the result of what seemed 
like a fantastic adventure. 

Rutherford and the great majority of other 
officers were wildly enthusiastic about the prospects of 
success for the Tanks. “ What are the Boche going 
to do? ” Rutherford was fond of saying. “The things 
that are holding up our infantry are barbed wire and 
machine-guns. Well, we can walk through the wire, 
and mop up the machine-guns. So far as I can see 
the Boche hasn’t an earthly.” 

There were one or two, however, not exactly pes- 
simists, but who were insistent on the mechanical 
troubles that were bound to occur, dangers of getting 
stuck in muddy shell craters, difficulties of finding 
the way, and so on. But, generally speaking, there 
was no body of officers and men in the British Army 
so full of confidence and high hopes. 

On the other hand, very few of the officers thought 
it would be possible for the secret to be kept until the 
day of action arrived. The Mess was always full of 
rumours of enemy spies and secret agents, and when 
Zeppelins came and dropped some bombs near 
Thetford everybody thought that the Germans 
knew all about the surprise packet in store for 
them. 

At last the great day came, and Rutherford left 
with the first batch of Tanks for Avonmouth, whence 


14 Tank Tales 

they went by ship to Havre, and from there by rail 
to> a place not far from the scene of the great struggle 
taking place on the Somme. From here could be 
heard the booming of the guns, and at night bright 
flashes in the sky told the tale of the ceaseless bom- 
bardment. 

On September 14 a movement by night across 
country brought Rutherford and his comrades, with 
their Tanks, to the forward lying-up place, known 
locally as the Green Dump. Green Dump is well 
known to all those soldiers whose fate led them to 
the fierce fighting round Longueval and Delvilie 
Wood. Here were stored bombs, ammunition, 
pickets, barbed wire, picks, shovels, and, last of all, 
Tanks. 

Carrying parties, loading up before going on to 
the trenches, here saw for the first time these new 
machines, of whose appearance they had already 
heard vague rumours. 3 

“ Blimey, Bill, it’s a blinking centipede,” remarked 
a cockney corporal as he stood gazing; “I bet that’ll 
crush the Bodies’ corns for ’em.” 

But the predominant feeling was one of mirth ; 
these monsters seemed so queer, so grotesque, stuck 
down there by a wayside road in France. Men came 
and looked at them, stared at their queer, painted 
sides, went round behind to examine their tails, and 
then broke into a broad grin as they grasped the full 
significance of the machines. 

The idea was so novel, and yet so simple; but 
the wonderful thing was that we had something 


The High Street of Flers 15 

.which the Germans hadn’t got — at last we were 
ahead of them. The tale spread like wildfire, and 
it is not too much to say that this first appearance 
of the Tanks was responsible for a new spirit 
of hopefulness and renewed courage throughout 
the army fighting among the craters of the Somme 
battlefield. 

As soon as dusk came, Tank officers started off 
to lay the tapes which would guide the Tanks to- their 
starting points. The routes had already been re- 
connoitred, but darkness makes it difficult for a Tank 
to thread its way through gun-pits and shell-craters, 
so a white tape is laid along the route to- guide the 
Tank Commander. * 

Dawn broke on September 15 to the accompani- 
ment of the thunder of guns — the hurricane bombard- 
ment that preceded the infantry advance. The Ger- 
mans, crouching in their dug-outs, waited for the 
barrage to lift, and then, rushing to the parapet, 
mounted the machine-guns so that their deadly fire 
could sweep the barbed-wire entanglements in front 
of the trenches. 

As they watched for the advance of our infantry, 
out of the smoke and dust appeared huge shapes, 
crawling across shell-holes, and through barbed wire, 
spitting fire as they came. 

What new terrible things were these that looked 
like steel forts moving toward them ? 

Some Germans broke and fled; others, stouter- 
hearted, turned their machine-gun fire on the steel 
sides of the advancing monsters. But in vain; the 


16 Tank Tales 

Tanks came on, relentless as fate, and even the 
bravest German now realised that defence was hope- 
less. 

Dick Rutherford had a little trouble with the 
engine of his Tank at starting, but this was quickly 
remedied, and crossing No Man’s Land his Tank 
was well up with the rest. The clanking of the 
engine and crack of the machine-guns were deafen- 
ing to the crew of the Tank, but every few seconds 
Rutherford, sitting in front beside the driver, could 
hear the sharp, unmistakable sound of a bullet strik- 
ing the steel wall beside him. 

As they approached the German front-line trench, 
all Rutherford’s attention was concentrated on choos- 
ing a good place to cross. Just as the front of the 
Tank rose at the parapet Rutherford looked down 
into the trench through the little porthole in front of 
him. 

There, just below him, was a machine-gun, and 
standing beside it was a German who had remained 
by his weapon when the rest of the crew had fled. 
This man stood as if spellbound, while the great steel 
belly of the Tank rose above his head. Then, as if 
suddenly realising the doom that was upon him, 
he leapt to the back of the trench to try and scramble 
out of the way. 

Too late, however, for as he clawed at the edge 
in a frantic endeavour to escape, the Tank, poised 
high in the air above, descended with a crash and 
caught him beneath the track. Rutherford just 
saw the man as he lay pinioned beneath that awful 


The High Street of Flers 17 

weight, and to his dying day he will never forget 
the sight. 

Once across the trench, however, he turned his 
attention to the task of finding his objective — the 
village of Flers. There, in front, beyond the support 
trench, he could see the straight road with a high 
mound to the right. “That must be the road to 
Flers,” he shouted in the driver’s ear, and pointed 
in the direction where the rest of their day’s work 
lay. 

Meanwhile, at the Advanced Headquarters of 
the British G.H.Q., three Generals were sitting 
together at a table studying a map on which was 
marked the gradually advancing line. Every 
now and then an officer would come into the room 
with some telegrams giving the latest reports of the 
situation. 

The moment was critical. 

German resistance had appeared to be stiffening 
during the last few days, and September 15 marked 
a crisis in the battle. The result of that day’s fighting 
must decide whether success would finally crown our 
efforts, or whether all the lives lost up to that time 
had been spent practically in vain. 

Suddenly the officer burst into the room with all 
his previous restraint thrown away. 

“Good news, sir,” he said, as he handed over 
the telegram. 

It was a wireless message, sent back by an ob- 
server watching the battle in his aeroplane overhead. 
The General took the message and read it out slowly 


18 Tank Tales 

and carefully, as though weighing every word ; it read 
as follows : 

“A Tank is walking up the High Street of Flers 
with the British Army cheering behind.” 

Rutherford had reached his objective, and the day 
was won. 


YOUTH 


For the development of a new invention or idea the 
most valuable instrument is youth. 

Youth has enthusiasm, courage, freshness, and, 
most important of all, youth is not hidebound by old 
ideas, which, like grooves, prevent a striking out 
in new directions. 

In the Tank Corps, as in the Royal Air Force, 
youth is regarded not as a drawback but as a valuable 
asset. The General commanding the Tank Corps is 
the youngest major-general in the Army. Company 
commanders are, many of them, youthful majors, not 
yet twenty-five years old, while there are boys not yet 
twenty-one as captains commanding a section of four 
Tanks. 

The result of this is that throughout the Tank 
Corps, amongst officersand men, there is a boundless 
enthusiasm and confidence in their weapons. Many 
a junior officer is quite prepared in all seriousness 
to explain after dinner exactly how the War could 
be won, and the basis of every argument is always 
the necessity for full exploitation of the Tank. 

All of which is exactly as it should be, but the 
results are sometimes slightly incongruous. 

Captain Jakes was a typical Tank Corps officer; 
leaving school in 1915, he was given a commission in 
J 9 


20 Tank Tales 

the infantry, and after a year in the trenches he 
transferred to the Tank Corps. 

After viewing three battles from inside a Tank and 
fighting that Tank with conspicuous gallantry, Jakes 
got promotion, and now in the autumn of 1917 he 
was a captain, wearing the purple and white ribbon 
of the Military Cross, commanding a section of Tanks. 

Jakes was full of the enthusiasm and ardour of 
youth ; he lived for his section, thought of it all the 
day, and dreamt of it at night. Never was a section 
whose Tanks were kept so clean; whatever happened, 
Jakes always had four Tanks fit and ready for action 
— if he had his way these four Tanks were going 
to lead the British Army to the Rhine. One after- 
noon the Company Commander came into Jakes’ 
bivouac with a telegram. 

“ Look here, Jakes,” he said, as he handed it over, 
“here’s a message from the infantry brigade that 
we’re attacking with on Saturday. They want to 
know all sorts of things, so you’d better go and see 
them after tea. I can’t go, as I have to see the 
colonel.” 

“Righto,” replied Jakes with airy confidence, 
“I’ll go and see them.” 

Now one of the most important articles of faith 
in the Tank Corps is the necessity for close co- 
operation with its infantry. 

And close co-operation means a lot. It means not 
only the obvious things, such as the infantry knowing 
all the plans of the Tank Corps, and the Tank Corps 
knowing all about the plans of the infantry, but it 


Youth 21 

also means that the Tank Corps officers must get 
to know the infantry officers with whom they are 
going to attack. This applies right down to the in- 
dividual Tank commanders, who must, if possible, 
meet the infantry company or platoon commanders, 
and talk over their plans for the attack in which they 
are going to co-operate. It is worth a lot in a battle 
if Lieut. Smith, of the 4th Bn. Blankshires, knows 
that the Tank behind which he and his platoon are 
advancing contains 2nd Lt. Billy Somers, who had 
dinner with him in Pop. only two nights ago. 

So Jakes was well accustomed to going over to 
the infantry a day or two before the show started, 
to answer all their questions about the Tanks. 

Jakes borrowed a motor bicycle from the company 
reconnaissance officer and set off to the Head- 
quarters of the 270th Infantry Brigade. 

The brigade was out of the line resting, and their 
billets were, in consequence, pretty good as billets go, 
the Headquarters having settled down in a farm- 
house, more or less out of reach of shell-fire, and 
near enough to civilisation, represented by the Ex- 
peditionary Force canteen, to enable the messing to 
be above the average. It happened that this particular 
brigade had never done an attack with Tanks before, 
so Jakes was bombarded with questions about them. 

The brigadier wanted to know the pace at which 
the Tanks would 'go, the routes they would take, 
whether they could guarantee to deal with a German 
strong-point that worried him, what guns the Tanks 
carried, and a dozen other points. The brigade- 


21 Tank Tales 

major was interested in “forming up” arrange- 
ments, synchronising watches, zero hour, etc., 
while the staff captain wanted to know whether 
the Tanks could carry ammunition and bombs for 
the infantry, and the signal officer was much worried 
about how he was going to get a message delivered 
in action to a closed steel Tank shooting in all 
directions. 

Jakes was in his element, and as he was really an 
extremely capable officer he created a very good im- 
pression on the brigade staff, who had hitherto 
thought of Tank officers in a vague sort of way as 
rather dirty types of superior mechanics. 

The discussion was still going on when dinner 
was announced, so the brigadier asked Jakes to stay, 
and the latter very readily accepted the invitation. 

Two hours of answering questions like an oracle 
are enough to turn anybody’s head, particularly when 
the oracle is not yet twenty-one and the questioners 
include a grey-haired brigadier-general with two rows 
of medals. So we must admit that when they sat 
down to dinner our friend Jakes was a little bit above 
himself — not exactly swollen-headed, but filled with 
a very strong idea that his opinion on any subject was 
very well worth having, and very willing to express 
that opinion in a pretty decided way. Three glasses 
of Burgundy rather encouraged this idea, and by 
the time the port came round the brigade major 
was getting decidedly worried as to the effect this talk 
might have on the brigadier. 

“Of course,” the brigade-major thought to him- 


Youth 23 

self, “appearances are deceptive, and this Tank Corps 
officer rniay be older than he looks, but the general 
is apt to get decidedly huffed at anybody laying down 
the law quite like this.” 

Up to this time Jakes had merely given his views 
in a general way as to how a brigade should be run ; 
he had touched lightly on the question of discipline, 
and the difficulties of dealing with a number of young 
officers. The right formation for a brigade in attack 
he had dealt with rather more fully, while the 
problems of laying out a strong-point and the dis- 
positions to meet a counter-attack had been success- 
fully solved with the aid of a few pieces of bread, a 
fork, and the salt cellar. 

The grey-haired soldier at the end of the table had 
listened attentively to it all, though a close observer 
might have observed an occasional twinkle in his 
clear, grey eyes, and it was not until after the second 
glass of port that he put the question which pricked 
the bubble. 

“And what were you doing before the War?” 
he asked, turning, to Jakes with an air of quiet 
interest. 

Jakes looked tip with a flush, glanced round the 
table at the expectant faces, and suddenly realised 
how he had been led on. With a sort of cold shiver 
he woke up to the fact that he had been talking 
steadily, laying down the law for about an hour and 
a half, while he was by many years the youngest 
officer in the room. 

With his face a deep crimson Jakes blurted out ; 


24 Tank Tales 

“Well, as a matter of fact, sir, I was still at school 
for the first year of the War:'' 

“I’m afraid I’ve been talking rather a lot this 
evening,” he added hastily. 

The general’s face broke into a smile, the staff 
captain burst out into an uncontrollable guffaw, and 
then the whole table broke into roars of laughter, 
in which Jakes, covered with confusion as he was, 
could not help joining. The contrast was too absurd. 

Two minutes before he had just finished explain- 
ing how the South African war could have been 
finished off in three months, and now the truth was 
out that at about that time he must have been only 
just out of his cradle. 

“Never mind, Jakes,” said the general, with a 
kindly smile, “have another glass of port. I wish 
we had more officers like you. Youth and enthusiasm 
are what the Army wants.” 

Then he added: “Anyhow, you’ve got a sense 
of humour, and I prophesy that before long you will 
be telling the story of this evening, even though it 
is against yourself.” 

And the general was right, which accounts for 
the tale being told again here. 


FOR VALOUR 


“For most conspicuous bravery in command of a section of 
Tanks. During an attack the Tank in which he was was disabled 
by a direct hit near an enemy strong-point which was holding up 

the attack. Captain and one man, both seriously wounded, 

were the only survivors. 

“ Though bleeding profusely from his wounds, he refused the 
attention of stretcher-bearers, rushed from behind the Tank with 
a Lewis gun, and captured the strong-point, taking about half 
the garrison prisoners. 

“ Although his wourids were very serious, he picked up a rifle 
and continued to fire at the retiring enemy until he received a 
fatal wound in the head. 

“It was due to the valour displayed by Captain that the 

infantry were able to advance .” — London Gazette. 


The Victoria Cross is awarded for valour, and in 
this war the standard of valour has been higher than 
ever before to obtain this, the greatest of all decora- 
tions. It could only be won by some extraordinary, 
outstanding act of bravery, to which at least three 
independent eye-witnesses could attest, and in these 
last four-and-a-half years so many courageous acts 
have been performed that it has only been the very 
finest deeds of heroism that were picked out for this 
reward. 

What, then, is the test? — for bravery cannot be 
measured, as knowledge is measured by the trial of 
an examination paper. First, the test is that of 
duty; no deed of heroism that can conceivably be 

25 


c 


26 Tank Tales 

construed as coming within a man’s duty will 
qualify him for the decoration. Secondly must be 
considered the degree of danger to which the man 
was exposed at the time when the deed was per- 
formed. 

An insight into this is gained when one sees 
the high proportion of posthumous awards of the 
Victoria Cross; the degree of danger must be almost 
certainty of death. 

And then, what type of heroic act will qualify 
for this reward — is it the heroism of sacrifice, or of 
fighting against odds, or an act of brilliant inspira- 
tion ? Certainly all these and more have earned for 
men this decoration, but perhaps the two outstanding 
qualities for which it has usually been bestowed are 
determination and forgetfulness of self. Determina- 
tion against overwhelming difficulties and danger, 
self forgotten in the resolve to do or die; these are 
the attributes which appeal most forcibly to English- 
men when it is necessary to estimate the degree of 
bravery for this supreme reward. 

And to appreciate the determination it is neces- 
sary to be aware of the exact circumstances under 
which it was displayed. 

There have been cases of runners, seriously 
wounded while on their journey, yet struggling on, 
held up by the resolve to deliver their message, which 
may mean life or death to their comrades. In the 
annals of the Royal Air Force also there have been 
instances of pilots, mortally wounded in the air and 
slowdy bleeding to death, landing their machine, and 


For Valour 27 

thus by a final expiring effort saving the lives of their 
observers. 

This, then, is the type of determination, some- 
thing which by a grim resolution and supreme effort 
of will-power seems almost to defy Nature herself 
until the objective has been attained. 

That was the kind of determination described in 
the extract from the London Gazette which heads 
this story; to appreciate it one must realise some- 
thing of what it means to go into action in a 
Tank. 

First of all there is the danger, the knowledge that 
the moment a Tank appears it becomes the target for 
any gun the enemy can bring to bear, shells bursting 
nearer and nearer until it seems inevitable that the 
next must crash through the steel, wreaking death 
and destruction within. The patter of bullets on the 
side — bullets stopped, it is true, though frequently the 
cause of a blinding flash followed by a thin stream 
of molten lead which may find its way through a 
crevice and blind a man inside the Tank. 

The place for the Tank is generally in the fore- 
front of the battle, leading the way for the un- 
protected infantry behind — but suppose the engine 
breaks down or the Tank gets stuck, ditched in the 
enemy’s lines ! And the discomfort of it all ! 

The noise of the engine and the clattering of the 
tracks, the hot oily atmosphere impregnated with 
fumes of petrol and cordite, the anxious watching for 
targets, the jolting of the machine, the difficulty of 
keeping to the route — all these go together to make 


28 Tank Tales 

up the experiences of the crew of a Tank in action, 
and it is only grim determination built up on 
splendid training that has enabled the Tank Corps to 
place on its records the list of so many objectives 
won. 

A cold, grey November morning, the early 
mist still clinging to the valleys but on the higher 
slopes of the hills making way for the rising sun. 
Overhead aeroplanes are dotted in the sky, droning 
their way through the still air, while in the distance 
can be seen the long line of observation balloons with 
their thin black wisps of cables holding them to the 
earth. 

Here, crouching in a trench below the crest of 
the gradual slope, is the foremost company of one 
of the British battalions detailed to form the leading 
waves of the attack. Their advance has been 
stopped, held up by the murderous fire of German 
machine-guns in a trench two hundred yards ahead. 
To conquer such positions as this as many men have 
died as died in other wars in battles that decided' 
the fate of empires. Hooge, High Wood, Pozieres, 
Delville Wood, Monchy-le-Preux, Inverness Copse, 
and Zonnebeke, these names will be remembered like 
those of the great battles of the past. 

On the right and left the attack has swept on, 
and in the distance can be seen^the dust of the 
barrage as the range of the guns is lengthened to 
conform to the infantry advance. Lying on the 
ground between the trenches are the sprawling 


For Valour 


29 


figures of the men who fell when the machine- 
guns opened fire; some are quiet with limbs out- 
stretched, but others move from side to side in dying- 
agony. 

The German fire is now directed far away to the 
flank against the succeeding waves moving up on the 
left in support of the advance; the range is distant, 
yet a few men fall, and one can see that there is con- 
fusion in the ranks in consequence of the fire from 
this unexpected quarter. The situation is desperate, 
two attacks against the trench in front have failed, 
and unless it can be won the advance of the whole 
line is threatened. 

“Look, sir, that’s what we want,” said a sergeant 
excitedly, catching the company commander by the 
arm and pointing back over the parados of the 
trench. There, a couple of hundred yards away, 
moving along a sunken road, could be seen the top 
of a Tank which had been delayed with engine 
trouble at the start, and now, moving up to join in 
the battle, had just arrived at the crucial moment. 

“Take charge here, Summers,” shouted the cap- 
tain to his second-in-command. “I’ll see to this 
myself.” 

And, sprinting across the open at imminent risk 
of being shot, the company commander jumped 
down into the sunken road alongside the Tank. A 
few words to the officer in charge were enough to 
explain the situation, and the Tank swung round, 
turning its nose towards the nest of enemy machine- 
guns which was the cause of all the trouble. Slowly 


30 Tank Tales 

and ponderously the machine nosed its way for- 
ward past the trench where the British infantry 
crouched and gfazed with admiration at their 
unexpected ally. 

“That’ll settle the blighters,” exclaimed the ser- 
geant as the Tank bumped down on the far side of 
the trench, but his expectation was short-lived, for 
almost as he spoke a shell burst not ten feet beyond 
the horns. A German field-gun two thousand yards 
away had spotted the Tank as it came over the bank 
of the sunken road and was now trying to knock it 
out. But nothing except a direct hit was any good, 
and the driver of the Tank had swerved to a zigzag 
course so that the next shell burst fifteen yards 
away. 

To the watchers on both sides the next two 
minutes were full of the most terrible anxiety; to the 
Germans who had hoped that each shot from the field- 
gun would knock out the Tank before it reached 
their trench, and to the British who realised that 
everything was bound up in the Tank’s success or 
failure. 

And what about the men inside the Tank ? 

.Worn out by a long approach march the night 
before, exposed at any moment to instant death, yet 
firm resolution kept them going, their whole minds 
bent to the task which the infantry had so urgently 
asked them to accomplish. 

The distant field-gun could not be seen, and 
anyhow it would be out of range, so the gunners 
set to work plastering the trench ahead with bullets. 


3i 


For Valour 

A hundred yards a minute was their maximum 
pace, and just three-quarters of the distance had 
been covered when a shell crashed through the 
sponson of the Tank and burst inside. The German 
machine-gunners in the trench beyond raised a 
cheer at the hit which had been scored just when all 
seemed lost. 

Inside the Tank was a scene of wreckage and 
desolation ; four of the crew had been killed outright 
and 1 all the rest were wounded, the engine was a 
tangled mass of steel, while on the floor lay bleeding 
men groaning in their pain. 

The spirits of the British infantry, raised for a 
moment to a pinnacle of hope, fell again to the 
depths of black despair. There lay the Tank, now a 
useless lump of steel, its crew had done their best, 
but failed just when success seemed within their 
grasp. 

And then came the miracle. 

Out of the door of the Tank, groping his way, 
came an officer. His clothes were torn and his head 
was bleeding, but his hands grasped a Lewis gun, 
and his face was set with a look of grim determina- 
tion. Looking around to fix his direction, stumbling 
as he went, he moved towards the German trench, 
now only a few yards away, and reaching a little 
hillock of earth, lay down and fixed his Lewis gun. 

Taken by surprise, and too astonished for the 
moment to fire, the Germans realised the situation 
only at the same time as their position was enfiladed 
by a storm of bullets. The British infantry seized 


32 


Tank Tales 

their opportunity; one gallant charge and the trench 
was won. The officer was killed. His Tank knocked 
out, his crew all killed or wounded, wounded himself, 
yet remembering what he had set out to do, he had 
scrambled from the Tank to clear the trench alone. 
Death all around him, almost dying himself, he 
had struggled on, his only thought to reach the 
objective. 

For valour ! 


SUPPLIES 


An army marches on its stomach, and the Tank’s 
stomach is in its petrol reservoir. When a Tank goes 
into action it carries a certain amount of petrol, 
oil, and grease; when the supply is finished it must 
be replenished, or the Tank is immobile and 
helpless. 

And how are fresh supplies to reach the Tank, 
which may have penetrated deeply into the enemy’s 
territory captured during the day? 

The Tanks may be far from roads, across shell- 
torn fields, scarred with trenches and threaded with 
wire entanglements; it may be a couple of days 
before roads are mended and shell-holes and craters 
filled in, so that motor-lorries can get even approxi- 
mately near to the Tanks’ resting-place after the 
battle. 

How, then, is the Tank to be fed ? 

The solution of the problem is, naturally enough, 
the Supply Tank. Where one Tank can go, another 
can follow, so the Tank Corps is equipped with 
special Tanks for supplies, which can carry not only 
petrol, oil, and grease, but also supplies for the crews 
and refills of ammunition for the guns. Sometimes 
these supplies are carried in special sponsons, bolted 


1 33 


34 Tank Tales 

on the sides of the Tanks, and sometimes they are 
towed behind on sledges. 

And a Supply Tank generally carries also some 
of the things that the infantry want urgently after 
an attack — bombs, ammunition, water, besides trench 
stores such as barbed wire, pickets, and sandbags. 
Once there was a Supply Tank which was waddling 
along unconcernedly with some bridging material, 
when it suddenly found itself in the forefront of the 
battle, so it hoisted a machine-gun and became a 
fighting Tank, helping very materially in the capture 
of an important position — but that is another 
story. 

Our present tale concerns the Supply Tank “ Pick- 
ford/’ and a certain Brigadier-General Crossman, 
who was a fine soldier, but whom long service in 
tropical climates had endowed with a thirst famous 
even in the 290th Brigade. 

The attack launched that morning had gone well 
and all the troops of the 290th Brigade had advanced 
nearly two miles. 

In the afternoon the Brigadier made a tour of the 
advanced positions, to visit his Battalion Com- 
manders and make sure that all arrangements had 
been made to put the captured positions in a state 
of defence. 

It was a hot afternoon, and by the time the 
General reached the last Battalion Headquarters he 
had arrived at a condition of thirst that reminded 
him of field days in India. 

The Battalion Headquarters consisted chiefly 


Supplies 35 

of a sheet of corrugated iron and a blue and white 
signal flag. The General looked round for any 
sign of a square-shaped bottle, but finding none, 
started off with the Battalion Commander in a 
condition resembling the Sahara Desert in a 
drought. 

Their tour was to include a visit to the new support 
system of trenches, which were being rapidly dug 
by a company of pioneers specially told off for the 
job before the attack began. After a tramp across 
the morning’s battlefield they came to what was once 
a copse of fir trees, but had now been reduced almost 
to nothingness by a storm of high explosives. Enough 
remained, however, to give some shade from the 
burning sun, and the General turned to the Battalion 
Commander. “Look here, Carruthers,” he said, 
mopping his brow, “I’m nearly done. Let’s sit 
down here in the shade for five minutes and smoke 
a pipe.” 

* * * * * * 

The Supply Tank “ Pickford ” had started out at 
about seven o’clock in the morning, loaded up to the 
roof with supplies of all sorts for the Tanks of the 
Company to which it was attached. The battle was 
at its height as the “Pickford” wended its way to- 
wards the rallying point, which had been fixed as the 
rendezvous, some mile and a half inside the German 
lines. 

The first part of the way led through the lines 


36 Tank Tales 

of batteries, whose guns were shooting away shell 
after shell ahead of our advancing infantry; then the 
“Pickford” arrived at our old front line, and here 
the Tank Commander got out of his Tank to have 
a look round. He had plenty of time, as they were 
not due at the rendezvous until noon, and it was 
necessary to make sure of the right direction across 
No Man’s Land. 

Here on the left was a ruined village, through 
which the British line had passed before the attack; 
just behind was the place where the Tanks had formed 
up during the night, while straight ahead, towards 
the German line, ran the unmistakable tracks of 
the Tanks which had crossed No Man’s Land at 
“zero.” 

It was a glorious day. The sun was shining 
brightly overhead, and the almost entire cessation 
of enemy shell-fire told that our attack was going 
well. 

Pioneers were already working on the roadls, 
mending the gaps where they crossed the trenches; 
a few batteries, detailed to move forward with the 
advance, were getting the guns limbered up. Across 
No Man’s Land, in the German lines, could be seen 
the top of a Tank, lying over on its side where it 
had side-slipped in crossing a trench. Away in the 
far distance could still be seen the dust and smoke of 
the barrage, moving ahead as the advance went 
forward. 

The Tank Commander fixed his bearings and gave 
an order which started the “ Pickford ” moving for- 


Supplies 37 

ward, following the tracks of the fighting Tanks 
which had gone ahead. 

Late in the afternoon the Supply Tank “Pick- 
ford,” its job completed and supplies delivered, was 
waddling back to the dump to get filled up again. 
The Tank Commander, whistling cheerfully, was 
walking alongside his Tank, and their homeward 
course happened to lead them past the little copse, 
just as the Brigadier and the Battalion Commander 
got up to finish their tour. 

“Hallo! ” said the Brigadier, as the Tank came 
in sight, “where is this thing going? Perhaps 
they have some news of what is happening in 
front.” 

So he hailed the Tank Commander. 

“Supply Tank, sir; going back to get another 
load,” reported the T.C. “I’ve been taking, up 
petrol for the Tanks and supplies for the 
infantry.” 

“ What supplies did you leave with the infantry ? ” 
inquired the Battalion Commander. 

“Oh, about twenty boxes of ammunition, ioo 
Lewis gun drums, thirty boxes of Mills grenades, 
two boxes of Very lights, fifty picks, fifty shovels, 
some barbed wire and pickets, besides rations and 
water. 

“I handed over all they wanted,” continued the 
Tank Commander, “but I’ve got some left,” and 
taking a paper from his pocket he read out : “ Forty 
boxes of ammunition, 200 Lewis gun drums, three 


38 Tank Tales 

boxes Very lights, ten boxes Mills grenades, twenty 
boxes Stokes bombs.” 

“ Why, good heavens,” said the Battalion Com- 
mander, “you’re not a Supply Tank; you’re Wool- 
wich Arsenal. You might deliver the rest of your 
stuff at my headquarters just over the hill,” he added ; 
“it will come in useful to-morrow.” 

“Very good, sir,” replied the Tank Commander as 
he saluted and turned to move away. 

“What a pity these Supply Tanks don’t carry 
canteen stores, Carruthers,” remarked the Brigadier, 
whose throat was feeling more parched than 
ever. 

The Tank Commander just heard the remark as he 
moved away, and, greatly daring, turned back and 
nerved himself to make a suggestion, which had 
occurred to him before, but which he had not dared 
to make. 

“Excuse me, sir, but would you like a whisky and 
soda ? I’ve got some in the Tank.” 

The General glared at the young subaltern ; 
his face grew a brighter red, and he rested his 
hand on Carruthers’ shoulder as if he needed 
support. 

“A whisky and soda,” he whispered softly. 
“Young man, you have saved my life.” 

“I thought it was awful cheek offering it,” the 
Tank Commander said afterwards, as he was telling 
his Major. “But I never saw anybody enjoy a drink 
so much as that General.” 


Supplies 39 

“Oh well,” replied the Major, “Generals are only 
human, and they’re very much like the rest of us 
after a long tramp in the sun on a hot day. Say 
when.” 

And General Crossman’s favourite story now is 
about the Tank which saved his life. He always adds 
the remark at the end: “Wonderful invention, these 
Tanks.” 


CRAFT 


“ So great has been the effect produced upon the German 
Infantry by the appearance of British Tanks that in more than 
one instance, when for various reasons real Tanks were not avail- 
able in sufficient numbers, valuable results have been obtained by 
the use of dummy Tanks painted on frames of wood and canvas.” 
— Extract from Sir Douglas Haig’s dispatch of December 21st, 
1918. 

In warfare the whole art of deception may be classi- 
fied under two headings: pretending to do ‘what you 
are not doing, and pretending not to do what you are 
doing. Before any great battle opens both these 
methods of deception are usually employed to their 
fullest extent. In the sector where no attack is to be 
launched there will be great preparations of new gun 
positions, more than ordinary activity in the move- 
ment of troops, what appear to be new railway sidings 
will grow, and generally there will be signs that 
something abnormal is about to occur. 

In the sector where the attack is really to be 
launched everything will appear to be as usual ; in 
fact, if anything can be observed by the enemy 
it will be that things here are even quieter than 
before. 

The preparation for the Cambrai attack of Novem- 
ber 20, 1917, was the classic example of the latter 
kind. The sector round Beaucamp and Villers- 
40 


Craft 41 

Plouich was noted as being” one of the quietest on 
the whole British front; nothing ever happened there, 
the opposing lines were in most places 1,000 yards 
apart, and friend and foe alike carried on their dull 
routine of existence with only a very occasional shot 
to vary the monotony. 

During the first three weeks of November this part 
of the line seemed to become even sleepier than be- 
fore; artillery was very quiet, raids were but few and 
far between, while there seemed to be no particular 
objection to German aeroplanes making occasional 
flights of observation. But underneath this outward 
calm there raged the utmost fury of preparation and 
energy. At nightfall, as the time to November 20 
drew nearer, the whole area woke up to the most 
tremendous activity : movements of guns, movements 
of men, and movements of Tanks — all taking place 
under the friendly cloak of darkness. 

By daybreak, however, the countryside had re- 
sumed its placid appearance, and the German aviator 
carrying out his morning observation flight could see 
nothing suspicious; there were no more cooking fires 
than usual, nothing noticeable in the number of men 
moving about in reserve billets, no more huts ap- 
peared to be building, the British aeroplanes made 
no special effort to prevent his observation ; in fact, 
the whole countryside wore an aspect of calm which 
seemed to say that here there was nothing concealed, 
nothing even worth concealing. At 6.30 a.m. on the 
morning of November 20 the curtain was rudely torn 
aside, hidden guns opened in chorus, the great attack 
d r ' °v , 


42 Tank Tales 

was launched, and the Germans realised how cleverly 
they had been deceived. 

With Tanks, the most common form of deception 
is by pretending that a concentration is taking place 
in one area while, actually, the Tanks are assembling 
somewhere quite different, and getting ready to launch 
the attack as soon as the enemy have moved their 
troops to meet the dummy concentration. 

There is the story of the gallant Colonel com- 
manding a Tank Battalion, who got urgent orders 
to move his Tank from Acq to St. Eloi, and on 
arrival at the latter place was told that the attack 
was postponed and that he must move back again. 
Soon after he arrived back, orders came through again 
for the attack, and the Colonel, full of ardour, moved 
his Tanks up to the positions of readiness. It was 
only after the operation had been repeated two or 
three times that it dawned on the Colonel that these 
moves were simply meant to deceive the Boche. 

Then there is the tale of the six Tanks which 
detrained nightly at a siding near a large town, from 
which leakage of information was believed to occur ; 
the Tanks moved during the night across country for 
about four miles to a large wood, and then got on 
to a train again at another siding and went back to 
their Tankodrome behind. 

This operation was repeated several nights in 
succession, until, the town simply hummed with 
stories of the vast concentration of Tanks taking place 
in the neighbourhood. This information undoubtedly 
reached the Germans by some means or other, as it 


Graft 43 

was intended to, because the poor unfortunate wood 
where the Tanks were supposed to be concealed was 
treated to the most severe bombardment which had 
ever taken place in that area. There was nothing 
there, however, except a few birds, so some more 
thousands of -German shells were wasted. 

The present story is of the great attack which was, 
and yet wasn’t, an attack by Tanks, where “masses 
of Tanks ” were employed which weren’t really Tanks 
at all. 

It happened during the series of great battles 
which were fought in the late summer and autumn 
of 1918, when the German Army suffered some of 
the worst defeats in the whole of its history and was 
driven back from just outside Amiens to the other 
side of Mons. 

The idea was conceived by a young Intelligence 
Officer, who was struck by the way in which the Ger- 
man wireless communiques invariably attributed their 
forced retreats to the employment, by the French and 
ourselves, of what the Hun called “masses of Tanks.” 
This officer had also studied the notes on the inter- 
rogation of German prisoners, and noticed that both 
officers and men seemed to agree that as soon as the 
Tanks appeared in large numbers the position was 
hopeless and there was nothing for them to do except 
surrender. 

Now the part of the line where our new attack was 
to take place was held by some German Divisions 
whose moral had already been severely shaken by 
successive retreats. Unfortunately, however, there 


44 Tank Tales 

were no Tanks available for co-operating in the 
attack, partly because the ground was not very suit- 
able, and partly because they were all wanted for 
other attacks taking place elsewhere. 

The Intelligence Officer suggested, therefore, that 
it was a pity not to have the moral effect which Tanks 
produced, and if real Tanks were not available to 
give material support, why not employ some 
dummies ? 

To the sappers must be given the credit for pro- 
ducing the sham articles — wonderful contrivances of 
wooden laths and canvas, but most effective at a little 
distance, especially in the dim, uncertain light of 
dawn. 

The dummy Tanks were extraordinarily light, and 
a .clever arrangement enabled them to be strapped on 
to the pack-saddle of an ordinary artillery mule, 
which thus became a Tank, the mule itself providing 
the motive power instead of a petrol engine. The 
Divisional Ammunition Column had the job of per- 
suading the mules to carry this unaccustomed load, 
and this was one of the hardest tasks of all. The 
first mule it was tried on simply lay on its back and 
rolled, which finished the delicate framework of the 
Tank in a few seconds; other mules started kicking 
as soon as the structure was put on their backs and 
wouldn’t stop until it was taken off. ^ 

Patience, however, combined with a few altera- 
tions in the method of attachment, overcame all 
difficulties, and after a few days’ training there was 
collected a docile band of mule Tanks, guaranteed 


Craft 45 

to go anywhere a real Tank would venture, and not 
nearly as liable to breakdowns from engine trouble. 

They were queer sights, those Tanks, as they 
wandered round the field alongside the D.A.C. camp- 
ing ground. From a distance of two hundred yards 
the deception was complete; closer, and one could 
perceive something queer about the way they moved, 
while from a few yards off their appearance was 
simply grotesque. The bottom of the Tank cleared 
the ground by nearly two feet, so that below could be 
seen the four legs of the mule and the two legs of 
the man leading it. This man had an observation 
slit in front, through which he could get a fair view 
of the direction in which they were walking, and after 
a little practice a number of these Tanks could keep 
in line and manoeuvre better than the real article. 

These men leading the Tanks, or rather leading 
the mules inside the Tanks, were all volunteers, as 
theirs was expected to be a most dangerous task. 
Tanks are apt to draw upon themselves the concern 
trated fire of rifle and machine-gun, and in this case 
the men inside had no special protection other than 
a thin piece of canvas. 

It is, therefore, rather an extraordinary fact that in 
the actual attack casualties amongst these men were 
extremely light, and nearly ninety per cent, of them 
were able to take part in the special “Tank” race 
at the artillery sports a fortnight later. 

But we are anticipating the story. 

The Germans had an outpost line on the top of a 
ridge overlooking our front trenches, so it was de- 


46 Tank Tales 

cided that the Tanks were not to be used in the first 
wave of the assault. 

The outpost line was only lightly held, and it was 
anticipated that this would be captured without any 
very great difficulty ; once our men were on the ridge 
and observation denied to the enemy, there was to 
be a short pause, during which a fresh wave of in- 
fantry, accompanied by the Tanks, would form up 
and launch the decisive assault against the main 
German position. 

The first phase of the attack started before dawn; 
and in the dim light, behind a very fine rolling bar- 
rage, the German outpost line was stormed, and our 
line established in shell holes and bits of old trenches 
just beyond the ridge. 

Now, while our guns concentrated their fire against 
the German batteries, the whole ground under cover 
of the slope became a scene of feverish activity. 

Machine-guns were brought into position to keep 
up a constant fire when the second assault was 
launched, light bridges were put down over the 
trenches, across which the infantry and Tanks could 
pass, and last of all appeared the Tanks themselves, 
some of them bucking slightly with the noise and 
excitement as they formed into line. 

■Within a few minutes all was in readiness for the 
starting of the second phase of the attack, and just 
as dawn appeared, the Intelligence Officer, from his 
forward observation post, sent back the message to 
Corps Headquarters: “Tanks and infantry have 
started for attack on Blue Line.” 


Craft 47 

Meanwhile, in the German lines confusion reigned 
supreme. Some of the infantry who had escaped by 
flight from the outpost position were in a bad state 
of nerves, and the supports, who had been hastily 
moved up into the main position, were beginning to 
be infected. German ober-leutnants moved up and 
down the trench encouraging their men to stand fast, 
but they realised that the situation was difficult and 
that if another attack came it was doubtful whether the 
position could be held. The one crumb of comfort 
was that there did not appear to be any Tanks in the 
attack; these cursed machines had been the bane of 
their existence ever since the beginning of the great 
allied offensive in July. 

Men had thought about Tanks, talked about them, 
heard stories of friends who had been crushed under 
them, until they were in a state when Tanks were 
seen and heard on all possible occasions and in all 
sorts of places. 

The Brigades and Regiments had been bombarded 
with orders and counter-orders from Headquarters 
on the subject. If Tanks appeared the men were to 
hold their ground at all costs; no, they were not to 
hold their ground, but move to a flank until the 
Tanks had passed ; they were to fire at the loopholes 
and observation slits — then, they were not to fire at 
the Tanks, but were to concentrate against the in- 
fantry accompanying them. Armour-piercing bullets 
would be used against Tanks — then, armour-piercing 
ammunition was withdrawn as it was found to be 
useless. Special anti-Tank rifles were to be used — 


48 Tank Tales 

but the kick from these rifles was so terrific that none 
of the men would use them. 

All these orders and counter-orders did no good, 
and only tended to worry the men and make them 
more anxious, with the result that they were in a fit 
state to be affected by what was to follow. 

The fire from the British guns suddenly opened 
again with fresh energy, followed by the whistle of 
countless bullets which whizzed overhead from the 
machine-gun barrage. 

“ What can you see, Corporal ? ” asked the officer 
anxiously. 

“I can see nothing, Herr Leutnant,” replied the 
man, with his eye glued to the narrow slit of his 
observation post. 

“Mein Gott ! here they come,” he added hastily, 
and then with a nervous shout : “ It is the Tanks — 
thousands of them.” 

There, coming over the ridge, was the long line 
of Tanks and infantry that seemed to spell doom to 
the waiting Germans. 

“ The Tanks are coming ! The Tanks are com- 
ing I ” The shout passed along the line, and the 
German resistance did not waver so much as ab- 
solutely crumble. 

Some crouched down in the bottom of the trench, 
others ran down into the dug-outs, others again bolted 
for the communication trenches, while some even 
climbed the parapet and ran towards the advancing 
line with their hands a y bove their heads, crying 
“ Kamerad ! Kamerad ! ” 


Craft 49 

Resistance was at an end, and by the time the 
Tanks reached the barbed-wire entanglement, which 
they could not possibly cross, there was nothing more 
for them to do except to turn round and go home 
again. The infantry collected the prisoners, put their 
new position into a state of defence, took possession 
of the excellent German dug-outs, and a fresh step 
had been won on the path to final victory. 

The young Intelligence Officer smiled as he read 
the German wireless communique at breakfast the 
next morning. 

“The enemy, by employing great masses of 

Tanks, forced us to withdraw in the sector, 

but our troops took up prepared positions in rear.” 


MISTY MORN 


“For most conspicuous bravery in leading bis Tank in attack 
under heavy shell, machine-gun, and rifle fire over ground which 

had been heavily ploughed by shell fire. (Captain R , knowing 

the risk of the Tank missing the way, continued to lead them on 
foot, guiding them carefully and patiently towards their objectives, 
although he must have known that his action would almost in- 
evitably cost him his life. 

“ This gallant officer was killed after his objective had been 
reached, but his skilful leading had already ensured successful 
action. 

“ His utter disregard of danger and devotion to duty afford 
an example of outstanding valour.” — Extract from London Gazette. 

“ You'll do your best for us, Robinson,” laughed 
the Infantry Brigade-Major as he folded up the map 
which he and Captain Robinson had been poring 
over in the battered old chateau that served as 
Brigade Headquarters — in other words, a cellar with 
a ton or so of rubble on top of it, its entrance screened 
by a cunningly devised arrangement of bricks which 
looked as natural as a hundred or two powdered 
bricks can look natural. Robinson had strolled over 
from the Tankodrome — strolled is perhaps hardly 
the right word to describe the manner of his coming, 
since he had bent double most of the way, and once 
had lain flat in the mud while some heavy stuff 
screamed across— and when he dropped down the 
“chute” and landed at the Brigade-Major’s feet, 
5o 


Misty Morn 51 

the B.M. had growled something about “chucking 
mud all over a perfectly good ordnance map of the 
western front.” 

“I’m afraid it’ll be a sticky business, Robinson; 
I wouldn’t think much of our chance if we hadn’t got 
the Tanks.” 

“We’ll do our best,” replied the Captain. “ What 
time’s the show start? ” 

The Brigade-Major told him. 

“ We jump the stream there,” he said, pointing 
to the straggling line on the map that stood for a 
large-sized brook. 

“The Reutel Beek ! ” muttered Robinson, with 
a little laugh. 

“ What d’you know of the Reutel Beek ? ” 

“Doesn’t all the British Army know the Reutel 
Beek? Our heavies even haven’t been able to smash 
the machine-gun nests on the far bank, though either 
ours or theirs have made a nasty mess of the only 
bridge there is.” 

“Well, anyway, we’re getting across the Reutel 
Beek,” said the B.M., “and we rely on your crowd 
to help us.” 

“Righto,” Robinson promised, and he hauled 
himself up out of the cellar and went for another so- 
called stroll. 

It was while he was cleaning his eyes of the mud 
of Belgium, flung up at him by a noisy H.E., that 
he reflected on 'things. 

“H’m,” he muttered, “when Divisional H.Q. 
thought out this stunt I suppose they’d reckoned on 


52 Tank Tales 

the mist; we’ve had mists every morning for a week, 
and the god who looks after us won’t change things 
just because we’re going over the top to-morrow 
morning. A nice thing. Reutel Beek. Phew ! 

He went on again and sprang the tidings on his 
section, whereat a crowd of men fell to work, clean- 
ing, oiling, totting up ammunition, and calculating 
petrol for the clumsy steeds they were to drive to 
battle in the morning. 

Robinson sat down and smoked his pipe thought- 
fully. 

“I say,” he said at last to one of his Tank Com- 
manders. “I’ll have to lead these buses to-morrow, 
you know.” 

The T.C. stared at him. He seemed to want to 
speak, but couldn’t for a while; then he stuttered 
something that made Robinson laugh, just a little 
nervously perhaps, but certainly not with mirth. 

“Mustn’t?” he said. “Possibly; but Pm going 
to. You see, in this infernal mist the Tanks will lose 
their way. You know what the route is like up to 
the Reutel Beek; we’d simply wander about and get 
into the swampy ground and probably never get any- 
where near the stream. We can’t let the infantry 
down like that.” 

“No, I suppose not,” said the T.C. quietly; but 
he did not say all that was in his mind — that is, not 
to Robinson. But the news went round that the 
Captain was going to lead the Tanks — on foot. 

Of course, Robinson knew what his resolve 
meant ; he knew that the odds were a hundred to one 


Misty Morn 53 

against his ever getting through, since, as soon as 
the Germans realised that the Tanks were moving 
towards the broken bridge, they would simply plaster 
the ground with high explosive, and the machine- 
guns tucked away in the hidden nests beyond the 
brook would play death’s tattoo. But there it was; 
the Tanks were to smash down those nests, and see 
that the infantry got over the stream. 

That was the conclusion of Robinson’s syllo- 
gism, and it was based upon two premises : that 
there was only one way for the Tanks to do their 
job, namely, by being guided to their objective; and 
secondly, that he was going to be the guide. 

A splendid syllogism — belonging to the immor- 
tals; and, as Robinson knew, the real conclusion of 
it lay on the knees of the gods. 

He knocked out his pipe, folded up his letters, 
and went off with his orderly to tape the route to the 
starting point just behind our front line; this was 
no pleasant job in that shelled area, but Robinson 
did it and did it thoroughly, getting back to his 
section with a bare two hours left before it would 
be time to start. 

He awoke to the drumfire of the guns and the 
shake of an orderly. 

“We start in half an hour, sir.” 

Robinson saw to his revolver and pulled his tin 
hat down upon his head. 

“Everything all right?” he asked a T.C. 

“Everything,” was the reply; and the keen eyes 
of the Captain swept round the Tanks and took in 


54 Tank Tales 

the little groups of crews gossiping for all the world 
as though they were going gallivanting round Olym- 
pia instead of having, within thirty brief minutes, to 
clatter their way into an inferno. 

A sharp command, and the crews sprang into their 
places. T.C.’s nodded to each other; then they too 
slipped through their steel doors, which clanged to 
behind them. 

Clanking, clattering, exuding petrol fumes, and 
shaking gaudy-coloured sides, the Tanks began to 
roll away, to become lost immediately in the dense 
white mist that shrouded the Salient. Somewhere 
behind, and somewhere in front, deep-throated guns 
bellowed, and, high above, express engines seemed 
to be travelling on unseen rails. 

Robinson saw the last Tank start, and then slipped 
into the mist, which drenched him through in a few 
minutes. He trudged between the throbbing monsters 
until he was well in front of them all, and, while they 
pounded on, he went forward, eyes on the ground, 
peering through the whiteness and picking up the 
trailing tape as an Indian scout might track his 
quarry. Every now and again he hurried back, and 
through observation slits in the foremost Tank the 
T.C., having brought his machine to a temporary 
standstill so that he could hear the voice of the 
Captain, shouted back an understanding answer; then 
the engines started again, the leader swung a little, 
either to left or right, and the rest of the section 
followed. 

Now the Tanks had passed our old front line and 


Misty Morn 55 

they had no longer the straggling white tape to guide 
them. 

The barrage thickened, and the shells, instead of 
swinging overhead, fell uncomfortably near. Deep 
holes yawned where H.E.’s buried themselves and 
flung the earth up in showers; and unwary Tanks, 
none too nimble on their tracks, went slithering into 
them, only to churn their way out again and demand 
more of their engines in order to catch up with their 
more fortunate fellows. 

Shrapnel there was too, that pattered upon the 
steel sides of the machines and kicked up the mud 
in tiny spouts; and through it all Robinson went on, 
guided a little by the now clearly audible chatter of 
machine-guns that told him that the infantry in front 
were in contact with the enemy. That vicious rattle 
was an ominous comfort to Robinson, for it meant 
that, although even on foot he had been hardly able 
to pick his way, yet somehow, by the favour of Mars, 
he had managed to go straight for his objective. 

The nearer he drew, the hotter the fire ; and once 
he looked back over his shoulder as a metallic crash 
told him that a German shell had caught one of his 
Tanks. He saw the steel thing shiver to the impact, 
and then gather itself together again and lurch for- 
ward, damaged, but not dismayed. a 

And then through the mist loomed distorted 
figures, lines of men converging from various direc- 
tions. Some of them darted forward; others moved 
more slowly; some lay on the ground and the crack 
of rifles told that they were firing at something they 


56 Tank Tales 

could not possibly see, while the noise of Lewis guns 
vied with Nordenfeldts beyond the river. 

The Captain held up his hand, and the line of 
Tanks came to a throbbing standstill ; the T.C.’s knew 
what was going to happen now. They saw the Cap- 
tain slide off, to merge into the whiteness for a few 
moments. He came back soon, with news that he 
shouted through the loophole of the leading Tank. 

“Bridge a hundred yards away. Infantry held up 
by machine-guns. Come on ! ” 

Once more he faced away from the Tanks, which 
moved to his bidding and ground their way through 
the mist; eyes peering from gun-slits and sight-holes 
saw, as they passed, the infantry lying on the ground 
waiting for the Tanks to clear the way for them. 

Yard by yard the Tanks crawled forward, and 
yard by yard Robinsonjed them, and went himself, 
into a hurricane of death. When they loomed out of 
the morning fog, the Germans beyond the Reutel 
Beek turned every machine-gun and rifle in impotent 
fury and fright upon the advancing Tanks; and some, 
realising that that solitary figure at their head was 
the eyes of the section, tried to pick him off, while 
the artillery behind, warned of their approach, 
divided their attentions between the Tanks and the 
bridge. 

Now the Tank guns were joining in the fight; 
vivid jets of flame burst from the protruding muzzles, 
the men inside choosing their moments to fire as 
the Tanks rolled and pitched over the uneven ground. 

And then the muddy bank of the Reutel Beek 


57 


Misty Morn 

showed a little way ahead, with its almost battered 
bridge. Infantry cheered, Tank crews cheered too, 
though they could not hear their own voices in the 
rattle of their machinery and the roar of. their guns. 
They cheered not so much because the Tanks were 
on the verge of crossing as because a figure was 
nearing the bridge and still went forward, splendid 
mark for the enemy, beckoning his section on. 

The Tanks followed him, with the drivers staring 
through portholes and wondering, with gulping 
throats, how it was that the Captain did not go down 
beneath that hail. Slowly and patiently Robinson 
walked ahead, now carefully pointing to one side as 
he skirted a shell-hole that his Tanks must avoid, 
then making a slight detour to clear a great block of 
masonry that blocked the direct approach to the 
bridge. 

This was no daring deed wrought in the heat of 
action, when a man, with his blood up, may perform 
prodigies of valour. No, this was a greater heroism, 
where a man, with death all around him, deliberately 
and patiently carried out his task, knowing that on 
his judgment and calculation depended the lives of 
hundreds of his comrades. 

The old bridge trembled and shook as the first 
Tank pushed its blunt nose on to it, and not a man 
of its crew but felt that the odds were heavy against 
their crossing safely. 

But the Tanks crossed, every one of them, blazing 
away as they went and trying to knock out the hidden 
machine-guns before these could finish the account 


E 


58 Tank Tales 

of their heroic leader. They were across, with the 
infantry behind streaming along in their wake, 
when their gallant leader fell, shot through the heart. 
Robinson got no farther — his work was done — but the 
Tanks went on. 

The Tanks went on and reaped their crop of ven- 
geance, swift and sure and true ; they blazed their way 
through, caring nothing for the heavy stuff flung at 
them, while their crews only smiled grimly as they 
heard faintly the patter of machine-gun bullets on 
the chilled steel sides. They sat on trenches and 
fired down into them ; they mauled concrete pill-boxes 
till they were nothing more than powder ; they routed 
concealed gunners from their hiding-places and sent 
them scurrying like rats. 

With a ringing cheer and a wild howl the British 
infantry surged forward when they saw Captain 
Robinson fall ; they too were out for vengeance, 
made possible by the death of the man who had so 
deliberately sacrificed himself that the Tanks might 
clear the way. 

Had the Tanks gone astray, as they must have 
done but for Robinson’s gallantry, hundreds of men 
would have been lying dead or writhing in agony. 
Thanks to him they crossed the Reutel Beek and 
stormed what little remained of the enemy strong 
points; then, since a man can run faster than a Tank 
can waddle, they pelted over the shell-pocked ground 
and hurled themselves upon the retreating Germans, 
while the Tanks put over a barrage that held off 
reinforcements. 


Misty Morn 59 

Once the passage over the Reutel Beek was as- 
sured, the battle that had been going none too well 
for the British, since they could nowhere get at the 
enemy, took a different turn. Position after position 
beyond the stream that had withstood the anger of 
the guns fell either to infantry or settled down to 
grim indefiniteness after the Tanks had straddled 
across them, and when the mist had lifted the whole 
of the line of the Reutel Beek was ours. 

Such is the story that lies behind the bald official 
statement in the London Gazette ; a story of heroism 
of which the Tank Corps are justly proud, for this 
was their first V.C. 

Robinson would have wished for no better epi- 
taph : “He fell, but the Tanks went on.” 


JIMMY SUTHERLAND 


Second Lieutenant Jimmy Sutherland of the Tank 
Corps was a careless youth. Blessed by nature with 
a pair of large blue eyes and an innocent face, Jimmy 
combined a cheerful and happy disposition with a 
happy-go-lucky carelessness that was the despair of 
his Company Commander. Immensely popular with 
the men and amongst his brother officers, Jimmy 
had the unfortunate knack of invariably playing, 
the leading part in any queer episode that hap- 
pened, with the result that stories of his latest 
exploit were a never-failing source of amusement in 
the officers’ mess. 

Before leaving England Jimmy distinguished him- 
self by shooting a cow which was wandering in the 
neighbourhood of the range. He explained the un- 
fortunate occurrence afterwards by the remark : “ I 
saw the thing moving along in the distance and 
thought it was one of the new targets for anti-Tank 
practice, so I turned the Lewis gun on to it. Any- 
how, it was jolly good shooting,.” 

Then, after he got to France, there was the incident 
when Jimmy Sutherland was the cause of the holding- 
up of all traffic on the railway for more than half an 
hour. It happened like this. 

60 


Jimmy Sutherland 61 

The Tanks of Jimmy’s company were moving by 
train to a certain Tankodrome, and for the last part 
of the journey Jimmy travelled on the truck, 
inside his Tank. The train arrived at the railway 
station nearest to their destination, and then the 
engine shunted round to the rear of the train to push 
it for the last mile down into the^iding where they 
were to unload. 

Jimmy’s Tank was on the leading truck, and while 
they were waiting in the station for the engine to get 
round behind, Jimmy thought it would be a good 
plan to get everything ready to unload the moment 
they arrived. With the assistance of his crew he 
rolled up the tarpaulin which had covered up the 
Tank during the journey, got back into the Tank, 
switched on the lights, and started up the engine. 
Meanwhile the locomotive had coupled on behind th$ 
train and started to push it along towards the siding 
where the unloading-ramp was situated. 

Now it happened that this was the first time that 
Tanks had been unloaded on this part of the line, so 
the local D.A.D.R.T., a fussy little colonel, had come 
down to reinforce the R.T.O., and both these officials 
were travelling in the guard’s van, which was the last 
wagon on the train. They had only moved a few 
hundred yards out of the station, and were just going 
round a sharp curve in the line, when the brakes 
were put on with a crash and the train came to a 
standstill. 

“See what it is, Spencer,” said the colonel to the 
R.T.O., rather irritable at the delay. 


62 Tank Tales 

“Signal against us, sir,” replied the latter after 
he had looked out of the window. 

Ten minutes passed and nothing happened, the 
colonel growing more and more annoyed. 

“ I can’t think what it is stopping us,” he observed. 
“Go along to the engine-driver, Spencer, and tell him 
to blow his whistle.” 

The whistle was blown once, twice, three times, 
but no result; the red light still twinkled on steadily 
in the distance. 

“Look here, I can’t ^tand this,” said the colonel 
finally. “I know the traffic arrangements are all right 
for this train, as I made them out myself. I’m going 
along to find out what’s the matter.” 

So the colonel and the R.T.O. clambered out of 
the guard’s van and tramped along the whole length 
of the train, stumbling over sleepers in the darkness, 
while the colonel’s temper got worse and worse. And 
then, just when they got to the end of the train, 
they saw the cause of all the trouble — the tail-lamp 
of the Tank on the leading truckf was turned on, 
and as the train was going round a curve the 
red light naturally appeared like a distant danger 
signal. 

On to the truck they climbed, the colonel followed 
by his faithful R.T.O., and beat on the door of the 
Tank — but the Tank engine was running and nobody 
heard inside. They kicked and shouted, but all to 
no purpose, until the colonel, pink with fury, finally 
clambered round to the front of the Tank and thrust 
his face in at the driver’s flap, to find the innocent 


Jimmy Sutherland 63 

Jimmy curled ,up on his seat deep in an exciting 
chapter of one of John Buchan’s novels. 

“I got an awful shock,” said Jimmy afterwards. 
“I was sitting quietly reading when all of a sudden 
a great red face appeared and started using the most 
horrible language. It was the nearest thing I didn’t 
shoot it with my revolver.” 

Then there was the affair of the motor-lorry — but 
really that wasn’t Jimmy’s fault, though, as he re- 
marked plaintively afterwards, “It wouldn’t have 
happened to anyone but me.” 

It was during an approach march, and Jimmy’s 
Tank had dropped behind the others, so he was 
hurrying to catch them up. 

It was just getting dark, and they were going 
along a track beside the road, when they came across 
a motor-lorry lying on its side, where it had side- 
slipped into the ditch. A car was waiting in the road, 
and an A.S.C. major, who was evidently in charge 
of a convoy, was directing operations and trying to 
unditch the lorry. This major stopped the Tank and 
asked Jimmy to bring it along and tow the lorry out. 

“Can’t be done, I’m afraid, sir,” replied Jimmy. 
“I’m in a hurry.” 

“But it won’t take you five minutes,” said the 
major. “One pull with your Tank will settle the 
business.” 

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m late already.” 

“But you must,” said the major. “This lorry is 
part of a most important convoy. I’m your senior 
officer, and I order you to do it.” 


64 Tank Tales 

“All right,” replied Jimmy. “In that case, I 
suppose I must.” 

So the Tank was swung round, brought down 
to the road, and the towing-rope was got out and 
fastened on to the frame of the lorry. 

Now it must be understood that the motor-lorry 
was very badly stuck ; the whole of the back part had 
sunk down into the ditch and was wedg.ed there prac- 
tically immovable. The Tank started moving forward 
very slowly and steadily, the wire rope tightened — 
but the lorry didn’t move. 

“Hurry up ! ” shouted the major. “ Give it a good 
jerk.” 

“Righto,” replied the Tank Commander. “I’ll let 
her have it.” He let in the clutch, opened the throttle 
wide, the immense weight of the Tank moved forward 
with a jerk — and went off down the road, dragging 
behind it the engine and front wheels of the lorry, 
which had parted company with the rest of the 
vehicle ! 

Yes, there was no doubt about it, approach 
marches seemed to be unlucky for Jimmy Sutherland. 
It was during an approach march that occurred the 
well-known incident of the collision between his Tank 
and a locomotive. And the extraordinary thing 
about it was that the Tank came off best in the 
encounter. 

It was^at night, and the train came round a corner, 
going slowly, it is true, just at the point where the 
line crossed the road. It was a newly constructed 
railway and there were no level-crossing gates, while 


Jimmy Sutherland 65 

Jimmy’s Tank happened to be crossing the lines just 
as the train appeared. 

The Tank was certainly shifted a yard or two and 
had an uncomfortable dent in its side, but it was able 
to continue its journey, while the locomotive was most 
seriously disturbed in its inside and had to be towed 
off to a repair shop — so, on the whole, we may say 
that the Tank won. 

But Jimmy’s best exploit was when his Tank went 
into the furniture removal business; this was also on 
an approach march, or, at any rate, at the start of 
one. It happened just before the Messines battle, 
and the Tanks of Jimmy’s company were hidden in 
a farmyard. Some of the Tanks were under the trees 
at one side, and others were nestling close up along- 
side the farm buildings— altogether it was a most 
successful piece of camouflage work, though it 
certainly didn’t appeal to the artillery colonel who 
lived in an Armstrong, hut at the entrance to the 
farm. 

This colonel had objected to the Tanks coming 
there in the first place, because he said it would be 
certain to draw the enemy’s fire against his head- 
quarters. Then, when higher authority ruled that 
this was the only place where the Tanks could go, 
the colonel continued to make himself objectionable 
by refusing to make any room in the barns for the 
crews to be billeted near their machines. As a 
matter of fact, the Tanks were so well hidden that 
they were never spotted by the Boche, and no un- 
fortunate bombardment resulted, but the colonel 


66 Tank Tales 

afterwards regretted the visit of the Tanks for quite 
another reason. 

The night came when the Tanks were to move up 
into their starting positions for the attack, so as soon 
as it was dusk camouflage nets were removed, engines 
started up, and the machines got ready to move. 

Now the first part of their route was along the 
road, and then after a few hundred yards they would 
strike across the fields and follow the tape that had 
been laid ready to guide them. Unfortunately, this 
particular road also had to be used by an enormous 
amount of horse transport and numbers of motor- 
lorries, so it had been necessary to make some special 
arrangements for the Tanks to fit into the stream of 
traffic. A.P.M.s and traffic-control police stopped 
the ordinary transport as soon as the Tanks were 
ready to move, and there was a certain amount of 
hustling at the start, as it was very important that 
the traffic should be interrupted for as short a time 
as possible. 

Amid the roaring of the engines and grinding of 
tracks, clanking and clattering, the Tanks had just 
started moving out into the road when the unfortunate 
incident occurred. 

Jimmy’s explanation was that another Tank moved 
in front of him, and he had to swerve to avoid it; 
but anyhow it is certain that Jimmy’s Tank went out 
of the farmyard by the wrong exit. 

They had almost reached the road when Jimmy 
saw in the darkness what looked like the corner of 
the hedge, but that didn’t matter, so he went straight 


Jimmy Sutherland 67 

on — and went right through the colonel’s Armstrong 
hut, carrying off a good half of it on one of the horns 
of the Tank. Luckily the colonel was out at the time ; 
and, as a matter of fact, his batman found most of the 
pieces in the ditch next morning, and managed to 
patch up the hut again. But the Artillery Headquarters 
report that the colonel’s language was vivid in the 
extreme when he returned that evening and found 
that a Tank had walked off with half of his Armstrong 
hut. It was certainly rather careless driving, but 
the general opinion was that it served the colonel 
right for refusing to let the men billet in the 
barns. 

This, alas, was the last of Jimmy’s exploits, for 
he never came back after that approach march. The 
story of his end is best told in the words of the in- 
fantry battalion commander, who reported after the 
battle as follows : 

“2nd Lieut. J. Sutherland was in command of one 
of the Tanks detailed to work with my battalion in 
the attack. Soon after reaching the first objective this 
officer’s Tank was damaged by a shell, and three of 
the crew were wounded. 2nd Lieut. Sutherland, with 
the remainder of his crew, got out of the Tank and, 
with their Lewis guns, accompanied the leading wave 
of infantry in the attack on the second objective. At 
a time when the advance was held up by rifle' and 
machine-gun fire this officer, regardless of danger, 
went out in front and succeeded in getting a Lewis 
gun into action in a position from which he could 
enfilade the enemy trench. I regret to report that 


68 


Tank Tales 


2nd Lieut. Sutherland was killed, but it was largely 
as a result of his gallantry that the posftion was cap- 
tured. The carelessness of his personal safety and the 
conduct of this officer throughout the action were 
beyond all praise.” 

Jimmy Sutherland had been careless for the last 
time. 


HELP FROM THE AIR 


The Royal Air Force and the Tank Corps have many 
points in common, and the co-operation between 
them has always been whole-hearted. Both these 
branches of the service have grown to maturity during 
the War; the R.A.F., like the Tank Corps, has had 
to wage a bitter fight to secure its development and 
expansion, while in both their histories can be found 
periods when unexpected difficulties seemed to be 
almost overwhelming. These difficulties, however, 
have arisen only to be overcome, thanks to the in- 
domitable energy, courage, and unswerving faith 
displayed by officers, N.C.O.s, and men of both 
services. 

Youth, too, with its accompaniment of enthu- 
siasm, is required for the successful Tank commander 
almost as much as for the airman, while aeroplanes 
and Tanks are pre-eminently machines which give 
great opportunities for individual acts of daring and 
resource. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, 
that there has always been close liaison between 
officers and men of the Tank Corps and of the 
R.A.F. 

The obvious way in which the aeroplane can help 
the Tanks is by reconnaissance. The observer, flying 
over the enemy’s positions before the battle starts, 
69 


70 Tank Tales 

can bring back information about the positions of 
the hostile guns, and photographs by aid of which 
the Tank commander can pick out the best route for 
him to take jn the attack. During the battle, also, 
aeroplanes flying overhead send back by wireless 
news of the Tanks’ progress or details of the positions 
where Tanks have broken down and need assistance. 

In addition to this, there has been a later develop- 
ment of Tank and aeroplane co-operation, in which 
fighting machines, flying overhead, keep watch and 
guard over the Tanks below, looking out for hostile 
anti-Tank guns or batteries, and ready at any 
moment to swoop down and attack them with bombs 
and machine-guns. 

* * * * * * 

“Yes, sir,” said Captain Henson down the 
’phone, “I’ll send all that are fit — but that’s only a 
couple. Think that will be enough? All right.” 

He replaced the receiver and swung round to 
face his Tank commanders. 

“The division wants two Tanks to co-operate 
in an attack on.Blaugies. Hope your Tank’s ready, 
Mannley, and yours too, Frinton — they haven’t gone 
wrong after all, have they? ” 

“No, sir,” replied the Tank commanders. “We 
can start in five minutes.” 

The section commanded by Captain Henson 
formed part of a battalion of Tanks that had been, 
in action for many days with scarcely a respite, and 
very few of them were now in a fit state to carry on 


7i 


Help from the Air 

without being thoroughly overhauled. It was during 
the last great battles in October, 1918, when the 
Germans had been forced to get into the open and 
there were no longer those deeply dug entrenchments. 
Such “lines” had been smashed beyond holding, 
or, even if holdable, were useless — because of the 
Tank. 

The Tanks had passed through the “impreg- 
nable ” defensive line and broken for all time 
stabilised warfare ; the enemy was on the move back- 
wards, and in place of trenches found himself com- 
pelled to resort to open warfare, holding out at strong- 
points in the shape of woods, tiny villages, anything, 
in fact, that would provide cover for machine- 
gunners. These strong-points were being reduced 
or surrounded, one by one, but there still remained 
much to be done. 

It was to reduce one of these that a battalion of 
infantry, with the assistance of a couple of Tanks, 
was to be sent off ; and Henson went out ^vith his two 
commanders to look over the only two Tanks that 
could be expected to be of any use. 

They were just ready to start when an officer in 
the uniform of the R.A.F. came running up, the 
wings on the left breast of his tunic showing him to 
be a pilot. This officer, Rawlings by name, be- 
longed to the squadron which had been co-operating 
with the Tanks for the last two months, and he had 
come over from the aerodrome which was situated 
less than half a mile away. 

“Hallo, Henson ! ” he said as he came up. 


72 Tank Tales 

“I’m in this show, so I just came across to see you 
before you start. Which way are you going? ” 

“Here you are,” replied Henson as he produced 
his map. “We’re going up through this wood. 
The infantry are waiting for us just at the edge, and 
then there’s about a mile to the village. 

“The first part’s all right,” he added, “but as far 
as I can make out we’ll come into view from the 
village about here,” pointing to a contour line about 
half-way between Blaugies and the edge of the wood. 

“All right,” said! Rawlings, “I’ll keep a look out. 
The odds are that if the Boche has any anti-Tank 
guns they’re somewhere near the village. I’m going 
up in about half an hour.” 

Rawlings went back to the aerodrome, told his 
observer which way the Tanks were going, and then 
looked over his Lewis guns and bombing gear. 
Meanwhile Henson and his Tanks were pounding 
their way through the wood, a real wood, too, not a 
collection of tree stumps and shell-torn branches, for 
these were the days when the desolated trench area 
had been left far behind and our rapid advance had 
brought us to country which was comparatively un- 
touched by shell-fire. 

The forest cart-track followed by the Tanks was 
a good route, and half an hour’s easy travel brought 
them close to the edge of the wood, where they found 
the infantry waiting. Two companies were to ad- 
vance ’ to the attack behind the Tanks, and a few 
minutes’ conversation between Henson and the in- 
fantry officers settled the plan they were to follow. 


Help from the Air 73 

Henson went forward to reconnoitre, but from 
the edge of the wood could be seen only the tops of 
the highest houses of the village. For the first few 
hundred yards of the route the ground sloped up- 
wards, and with any luck the enemy would not see 
them until they topped the rise; the last thousand 
yards would be the } trouble. 

By now our guns had started, and Blaugies was ' 
getting hell ; shrapnel was bursting over the. village, 
and 1 every now and then Henson could see a shower 
of earth and debris sent up by the burst of a heavier 
shell. The German guns were replying but feebly, 
perhaps because they had already been moved away, 
but more likely because they were holding their fire 
in anticipation of the infantry attack that was bound 
to be suspected. 

A few words to the Tank commanders and it was 
time to start. Round to the side of the wood swung 
the Tanks, breaking through the undergrowth ; the 
edge nearest the enemy was a place to be avoided, 
for this was certain to be watched, while every 
minute that the Tanks could gain without being 
observed was of the utmost value. 

Three hundred yards from the wood and Henson 
took a look back from the observation turret; still 
no sign from the Boche, but our infantry were de- 
bouching from the wood in snake-like columns, 
following behind the Tanks. 

Now. the machines began to top the rise and every 
yard increased their danger; top windows of the 
houses could all be seen, then the lower storeys, and 

F 


74 Tank Tales 

now the whole village came in sight. A little to the 
right lay an orchard, ideal place for enemy guns to 
be hidden; Henson’s quick eyes noted it, and a word 
to the gunners started the 6-pounder and the machine- 
gun going on the starboard side. 

There were less than eight hundred yards to go, 
and our artillery had increased their range beyond 
the village, but the infantry behind had come over 
the crest and got some Lewis guns into action, cover- 
ing the advance. No sign of any enemy — it looked 
like a walk-over, a model attack taken straight out of 
the drill-book — when a flash came from the corner 
of the orchard, followed by the burst of a shell not 
twenty yards from the Tank. 

There was no need to tell the gunners to fire at 
the place where the flash had come from ; that was 
what they had been trained to do, and every man 
knew that unless the gun could be knocked out their 
fate hung by a thread. The driver also knew his 
job, and with a violent jerk the Tank started on a 
zigzag course. 

The guns of the other Tank were in action now, 
while the infantry with the Lewis guns redoubled 
their efforts to knock out the hostile gun before their 
Tanks were hit. 

“Thank goodness we’ve got Mark V’s,” was the 
thought that flashed through Henson’s mind as the 
next shot from the field-gun fell thirty yards to one 
side. These Tanks could really dodge, and dodge 
they did, while all the time the gunners plastered the 
orchard as fast as they could lo’hd. But that damned 


75 


Help from the Air 

field-gun must have been dug into an emplacement, 
for nothing stopped its fire; the next shot burst less 
than ten yards away, followed quickly by another 
which actually ripped through a corner of the spon- 
son and wounded two of the crew inside. 

Henson had entirely forgotten Rawlings and his 
aeroplane, when suddenly through the loophole he 
saw it swooping down out of the sky. 

Rawlings had seen the flash of the first shot the 
field-gun fired, and though to the men inside the 
Tank it seemed like an age, yet actually it was only 
a few seconds before he was darting to their rescue. 
The aeroplane was now almost over the gun, and 
both Rawlings and his observer were firing hard, 
with the realisation that they were almost too late. 

To the infantry and Tank crews on the ground 
it seemed as if the aeroplane almost touched the 
trees as it swooped down over the orchard. A 
moment later and she was heading upwards again, 
but the work was done. A loud crash as the bomb 
exploded, a great uprising of earth, of broken trees, 
of limbs of men, and pieces of steel that had once 
formed part of a gun. . . . The German field-gun 
was knocked out. 

And that scene was enacted less than fifty months 
from the outbreak of the War. 

If in 1914 you had suggested that an aeroplane 
should dive down to less than a hundred feet and 
attack a field-gun most soldiers would have thought 
you a dreamer — if you had suggested that an enor- 
mous machine weighing thirty tons would fight a 


Tank Tales 


7 6 

duel with a field-gun, the machine zig-zagging about 
like a ship avoiding a submarine, most men would 
have thought you crazy — if you had suggested that 
the aeroplane in the air and such a machine on the 
ground could combine to defeat a gun . . . but 
nobody would have thought of that. 


BEFORE BREAKFAST 


The infantry brigadier lighted his pipe at the 
guttering candle and nearly doused it with a shower 
of small tobacco, to the hurt of Army Form some- 
number-or-ot'her that the staff captain was filling in 
to explain how it came about that the brigade was 
two pots of jam short, or something of that kind. 
The staff captain growled beneath his breath, screwed 
up the sheet, and threw it away. 

“They ought to be coming in with the reports 
now,” said the brigadier cheerfully as he used 
a toothpick to remove the tobacco from the sea 
of tallow. “It’s six o’clock, and — here they 
are. Hello!” as a major slumped into the 
dug-out. 

“Evening, sir,” the major said. “I’ve come to 
report progress.” 

“Garry on,” said the brigadier, and the major 
proceeded to say that the attack, as far as his 
battalion was concerned, had made good progress, 
all objectives being reached and many prisoners 
captured and sent down to the cages. 

The battle — it was the battle of Gueudecourt, 
September 25th, 1916 — had opened early that morn- 
ing, and no small measure of the success that had 
attended it was due to the work of the Tanks. The 
77 


78 Tank Tales 

modern landships were new in those days, and the 
British Army had not yet ceased to laugh every time 
one of the waddling things came into view, with its 
wheeled tail trailing behind as though looking for 
something to do. 

If the British still chuckled over the Tanks and 
went laughing behind them into battle, the Germans 
still knew terror of them, and were not to lose it for 
many a long day ! 

The reports that the brigadier received, as one by 
one officers came in with their tales, confirmed the 
best hopes held of the Tanks and of the battle. It 
was true that at one point there had been a hold-up 
and that the village of Gueudecourt still lay beyond, 
in enemy hands ; nevertheless, exceptional pro- 
gress had been made, and it would be complete if 
only they could swing forward and drive the Germans 
from the village. 

The brigadier collected the reports and pored over 
them for a few minutes, scribbling, hieroglyphics as 
he did so, and at last pushed a sheet of paper over 
to his brigade-major. 

“That’s about the position as far as I can make 
out,” he said; and the brigade-major agreed as he 
scanned the rough plan. In front of Gueudecourt 
was a trench system known as “Gird Trench.” That 
trench and its support trench — there was a field of 
barbed wire in front of the former and another between 
the two — had been swept clear as far as the com- 
munication trench on the left called Mount Street, 
while on the right the British infantry had obtained 


Before Breakfast 79 

a footing in Ash Avenue, a second communication 
trench between the two lines. Between these two 
places the Boche still held in good force, and to 
attempt to clear him out was to risk many valuable 
lives. 

“That seems about right, sir,” the brigade-major 
answered after a few moments. “And what do we do 
next ? ” 

“Take Gueudecourt,” was the reply. “It’s on the 
schedule for early to-morrow morning — and it’s our 
job — so that the division on our left can advance, 
It’s going to be a devil of a job ! ” 

“There’s our Tank, sir,” replied the other. “Why 
not give it a show ? ” 

“By jove — yes,” exclaimed the brigadier. We 
had not so many Tanks in those days, and this 
brigade possessed but one, which was in reserve and 
was now behind the lines waiting, ready for the new 
phase of the battle. 

The brigadier and the brigade-major studied the 
rough plan again, and eventually came to the conclu- 
sion that if the Tank could get up and drive down 
between the trench and the support trench the 
problem would be solved and the way made" clear for 
the capture of Gueudecourt. 

“The Tank can smash down that wire from Mount 
Street up to Ash Avenue,” the brigadier said, “and 
the Germans will be driven back up to our post in 
Ash Avenue. We’ll have got ’em.” 

“Sure thing, sir, they’ll be trapped,” said the 
brigade-major. 


80 Tank Tales 

“That’s got to be held,” said the brigadier. An 
orderly was sent down to the Tank to warn its com- 
mander what was expected ; and another was hurried 
over to the battalion commander on the left to tell 
him to have a party of men ready to work up between 
the trenches behind his Tank. 

Meanwhile there was a deuce of a row up at Ash 
Avenue, and the subdued chatter of the machine-guns 
made it clear that the Germans were trying to re- 
capture the strong-point. 

“That’s got to be held,” repeated the brigadier. 
“At all costs — else our stunt can’t be worked to- 
morrow morning.” 

Forthwith another runner was dispatched over 
the shell-pocked^ground to Ash Avenue, which he 
reached just as the last German living there had 
been flung out. He handed his message to the 
captain in command^ and the officer grinned as he 
read it. 

“All right,” he said. “Tell the brigadier we’ll 
hold on.” 

It wasn’t in those words exactly that the runner 
gave his answer, but, though couched in formal 
terms, it conveyed the same meaning. 

****** 

Down at the Tank’s quarters there was consider- 
able activity. The crew finished their cleaning of 
guns, petrol and ammunition were replenished, 
and when all was done the men went to sleep — to 


Before Breakfast 81 

awake long before the dawn and board their steel 
ship. 

A heavy ground mist hung over everything, so 
that the commander had to walk on in front and pick 
the trail which eventually landed them, a clanking, 
throbbing box of machinery, dripping wet, near 
Brigade Headquarters. 

“There’s the spot,” the brigadier told the 
commander who looked in at the dug-out. “You’ll 
cross Gird Trench just out to the west of Mount 
Street, and then go right ahead. Take care not 
to blow our fellows to blazes up there at Ash 
Avenue.” 

“All right, sir,” said the T.C. “When do we 
start ? ” 

“Now,” was the reply. “It’s six o’clock — and the 
division moves forward in about an hour. Good 
luck ! ” 

“Thank you, sir,” the T.C. said as he hunched 
himself out of the dug-out. He slipped into his Tank, 
which began to throb again as the tracks slouched 
through the mud. Through the lifting mist could be 
seen the opposing wire, beyond which the lumps of 
litter that comprised trench parapets were visible. The 
Tank made a mess of that wire in quick time and then 
churned on, crushing her way over the already half 
demolished trench. A cheer from the infantry 
holding Mount Street greeted her, and there was 
little reason for suppressing it, since the rattle of the 
Tank had long since made her approach known to 
the enemy who had already begun to fire wildly and 


82 Tank Tales 

frantically, showering rifle and machine-gun bullets 
upon her steel hide. 

The Tank reared as she met the barrier trench, 
and then dropped her forepart clean on to the other 
side, slithered down to the more flat surface, pitted 
with shell-holes and littered with dead. She swung 
round in her own length, and then took the long 
straight path indicated by the barbed wire. The strands 
waved like corn in the wind as her nose plunged 
in, and were flattened like corn before a steam- 
roller running amok in a harvest field. Behind the 
Tank were the British attacking party, who slithered 
down into the trenches and passed along from traverse 
to traverse, driving before them all the time the 
retreating Germans. Streams of machine-gun bullets 
from the Tank swept along the trenches and finished 
accounts with men who but a few minutes before had 
imagined themselves able to hold up the British 
attack . 

“Got ’em on the move!” roared the Tank 
commander above the rattling machinery and the 
deafening crackle of his Lewis guns. 

“Yes, sir,” choked a gunner, black with smoke 
and the biting fumes of high explosives. 

“Hold tight ! ” yelled the T.C. as the Tank jerked 
badly; she had almost dived into a shell-hole, and 
only the skill of the man at the helm had yanked her 
well on to the uncertain flat again. 

Then on once more, and the gunners, when able 
to see down into the trenches, smothered them with 
bullets; the hurricane increased in intensity, and the 


Before Breakfast 83 

hotter it became the more hurried was the scurry of 
the Germans along the trench. 

Relentlessly the Tank drove on, crushing the wire 
as it did so and towering above the trenches from 
which came the terrified yells of the defenders. 
Hundreds of men though there were, they could do 
nothing. True, one lot, braver or madder than the 
others, sprang to the parados and seemed about to 
charge upon the Tank. There was a slewing round 
of the machine, and its nose drove towards the fool- 
hardy mob which promptly ducked for the safety of 
sandbags and debris. 

There was no escape, however, from the enfilading 
Tank. The farther they went along their trenches, 
the tighter packed the enemy became, and the 
greater the toll taken by the guns of the Tank, upon 
whose sides the bullets pattered, and fell off again, 
harmlessly . 

The Tank stopped for nothing — it carried its 
work to a fine completion, for at last the Germans, 
driven right along their trenches, were caught in 
machine-gun fire from the British strong-point in 
Ash Avenue. 

They dropped in batches, some dead, others 
dying, yet others of them seeking shelter behind their 
fallen companions. They were gallant men but 
caught in a trap; and they knew not which course 
to take — whether to go back or forward. Then 
the throbbing Tank, no longer firing, because to fire 
was to imperil British as well as Boche, seemed 
to the terrified men to be coming for them ; and know- 


84 Tank Tales 

ing that it would not do so if they mingled with 
the British in Ash Avenue, they flung themselves 
forward * and tried to reach the communication 
trench. 

The cross-fire caught them and scattered them in 
their wild rush — and they ran back to see the Tank 
standing like some avenging god between the trenches 
and covering them with its guns. Weapons were 
flung away at that, and hands were raised in sign of 
surrender as they rushed for the shelter of the Tank. 
The Tank commander barked out something in 
his best bad German, and the surrendering enemy 
scrambled over their trench-tops and lined up before 
the Tank. 

Meanwhile a few hardy spirits were still attempt- 
ing to rush the strong-point, but now the British, 
who had passed up the trenches, swept round the last 
traverse and went charging down, the morning sun 
glinting on their bayonets. 

It was the last straw — and the Germans gave up 
the game. . . . 

The Tank commander wormed through his steel 
door. 

“ Hello ! ” he said as he mounted the parados and 
looked over into Ash Avenue. “Better come up and 
count these beggars.” 

“Poor old Jerry!” said an infantry subaltern as 
he scrambled up beside him. “You chaps put the 
wind up him with a rush. Look at ’em ! ” 

d he T.C. looked; and a little later, while a runner 
went dashing down to Brigade Headquarters with 


Before Breakfast 85 

the news, he watched the Germans as they were 
tallied off like sheep for the pens. 

“Three hundred and sixty-eight, and seven 
officers,” he said above the roar of the guns which 
had just opened out to blaze the way for the advance 
of the Division. “Think we might get back to 
breakfast.” 


“BROWN, RED, AND GREEN” 

On November 15, 1917, a company of the 2nd 
Battalion Loamshires arrived 1 at a little village just 
outside Bapaume. 

The village was mostly in ruins, but a few corru- 
gated iron huts had been erected, the roofs of some 
of the barns had been repaired, and, best of all, there 
was an Expeditionary Force canteen. The billets, 
therefore, were not to be despised in that desolated 
land which the Hun had left behind him in his retreat 
after the Battle of the Somme. 

This was the time of the big defeat in Italy, and 
the division of which the 2nd Loamshires formed 
part had been trekking south for the last few days. 
Most of the marching had been carried out at night, 
and the wildest speculation was taking place as to 
their destination. The latest rumour was that they 
were off to Italy to try and save the situation 
there . 

“Well, I don’t mind if we stay here a week,” 
remarked Captain Wailes, as he contentedly sipped 
his coffee after lunch. There was a chorus of agree- 
ment from the other officers of “A ” Company. 

“Can’t you make it a month ? ” said Sutherland, a 
long-legged Scotsman. “We deserve a rest after 
four months in that damned salient.” 

86 


“ Brown, Red, and Green ” 87 

“ I’ll bet you we don’t stay here forty-eight hours,” 
interposed Staley, the company pessimist. “We’re 
off to help the ice-cream wallahs, who’ve had a 
nasty knock.” 

“Well, we might do worse than that,” replied 
Wailes, as he filled his pipe; “Venice would be an 
improvement on Ypres, though they are rather alike 
in some ways. But where did 1 you get that yarn 
from? ” he added, turning to Staley. 

“It isn’t a yarn,” replied the other, “it’s a Sher- 
lock Holmes deduction. When one happens to see 
an Italian grammar on the brigade-major’s table, 
and the brigadier comes back from leave with a 
fur overcoat, it’s possible to put two and two 
together and make at least four and a half out of 
them.” 

At that moment an orderly entered and handed a 
note to Captain Wailes, who opened it and read out : 
“All company commanders to report forthwith at 
Battalion Headquarters.” 

“There you are; what did I tell you?” said 
Staley, as Wailes picked up his hat to go; “and don’t 
cheer yourself up with the Venice notion. It’s much 
more likely to be the top of the mountains, in three 
feet of snow.” 

At Battalion Headquarters, however, Wailes 
heard some facts, which were quite different from 
the rumours that had been floating round for the last 
few days. The colonel announced that their divi- 
sion would move up in about three days’ time and 
attack the famous Hindenburg line opposite 


88 Tank Tales 

Cambrai. He added further that the attack would 
be a surprise, and that there would be no preliminary 
bombardment. 

“But what about the wire, sir?” asked a com- 
pany commander. “It’s supposed to be about fifty 
^ards thick in front of the Hindenburg line.” 

“The Tanks will settle that,” replied the colonel. 
“We are going to have every Tank in the British 
Army for this attack; they’ll go ahead and crush 
down the wire, making paths along which the 
infantry can follow.” 

“But can they do that, sir? It sounds too good 
to be true, and we shall be in the devil of a mess if 
it doesn’t come off.” 

“You must take my word for it at present,” 
answered the colonel. “You know I was away all 
day yesterday. Well, I went to a place near Arras, 
and saw a demonstration of the Tanks doing 
this, through an enormously thick belt of wire — 
and I actually walked through it, behind the 
Tank.” 

The colonel then pointed out the need for abso- 
lute secrecy, as the whole success of the attack de- 
pended on surprise. 

“What do the men think at present?” he asked. 
“I know there are always a lot of rumours about 
whenever the division is on the move.” 

“Well, sir,” replied Wailes, “the general idea at 
present seems to be that we’re going to entrain some- 
where and go off to Italy.” 

“Good, that’ll do excellently,” replied the colonel. 


“ Brown, Red, and Green ” 89 

“I’ll send out a note this evening marked ‘ Very 
Secret and Confidential,’ to ask the names of all 
officers and men who can speak Italian. That will 
help to keep the rumour alive if you make discreet 
enquiries about it in your companies.” 

Two days later a couple of officers and a party of 
men from each battalion in the division went off in 
motor-’buses to a place behind our lines, and 
practised going through wire behind the Tanks. 
There was no doubt about it, the thicker the wire 
entanglement the better the Tank seemed to like it, 
and the paths made, though narrow, were quite 
passable for infantry in single file. 

The next day was spent by the division in going 
through certain simple movements behind men carry- 
ing flags to represent Tanks. That night, the in- 
fantry of the division went off in motor lorries and 
’buses, and arrived before daylight in a large wood 
about four miles behind our front line. 

By this time it was no longer possible to conceal 
from the division that an attack was impending, but 
the infantry all bivouacked in the wood, which 
sheltered them from the prying eyes of enemy air- 
men, and nobody was allowed out of it in daylight. 
Luckily the next two days were misty, but in spite of 
this, as an additional precaution, no fires were 
allowed, lest the smoke should arouse suspicion in the 
minds of the enemy observers. Hot rations, how- 
ever, were brought up at dusk, and the men all cheer- 
fully accepted the situation as a necessary move in 
the gre«at plan for deceiving the Boche. 

G 


90 Tank Tales 

“ A ” Company of the 2nd Loamshires slept late 
on the morning of the 18th, and it was not until 
about 11 o’clock that Sutherland had a stroll round, 
and came back to report that the other end of the 
wood was full of Tanks. On this news all the officers 
of the company trooped off to see for themselves 
the machines which were going to lead them into 
battle . 

There they were, nestling amongst the under- 
growth, covered with branches of trees, and entirely 
concealed from view overhead — even the tracks which 
they had made in entering the wood had all been 
carefully camouflaged. 

After some inquiries, Wailes found the captain 
commanding the section of Tanks with which his 
company was to co-operate in the attack. Before the 
day was out officers and men of the infantry had ex- 
plored the Tanks, and got to know the Tank Corps 
crews — a most important detail for successful co- 
operation in battle. 

That evening there was a rehearsal of the “ form- 
ing-up ” arrangements. Officers and men from the 
infantry went up to the places just behind the front 
line where the Tanks were to form up for the attack, 
and with them were some officers of the Tank Corps 
to act as guides. Captain Wailes took with him 
some of the officers and an N.C.O. from each 
platoon, and at a certain sunken road near the sup- 
port trench they met Captain Thomas of the Tank 
Corps, who showed exactly where each Tank of his 
section was going to be formed up before the start. 


“Brown, Red, and Green” 91 

Meanwhile the capacity of the wood was strained 
to the uttermost to provide hiding-places for guns, 
Tanks, ammunition dumps, petrol dumps, Supply 
Tanks, and all the other paraphernalia required for 
the attack. At Corps and Divisional Headquarters 
staff officers wrestled with march-tables and alterna- 
tive routes, to produce a time-table that would ensure 
all the troops getting into their positions without con- 
fusion. 

It was dark early in the evening of November 
19th, and at about 4.45 p.m. the first Tanks started 
out on their long trek, following the white tapes 
which were laid along the route to guide them. 

“A” Company of the 2nd Loamshires had been 
resting most of the day, and at about 7 p.m. they 
started off to the trenches. Their rendezvous was 
the sunken road between the villages of Villers 
Plouich and Beajucamp, and here they were to wait 
for the. Tanks, which moved but slowly in the 
darkness. 

About 11 o’clock the Tank Corps officer, Captain 
Thomas, arrived to say that his Tanks were in posi- 
tion and that he would lead the infantry to them. 
A few hundred yards across the open, and they came 
to the Tanks, looming up indistinctly in the dark- 
ness; each of the platoons found its place, and the 
men lay down to get some sleep in the precious 
hours of the night that still remained. 

“If you come with me, Wailes, I’ll show you 
something before turning In,' said Thomas when the 
company had all settled down. 


92 Tank Tales 

“All right,’’ replied Wailes, and followed the 
Tank Corps officer across the grass to the Tanks. 

Thomas led him round to the front of a Tank, 
and then, stopping right underneath the horns, he 
pointed upwards, and 1 asked, “What do you think of 
that ? ” There, right on top of the Tank, was an 
enormous bundle of brushw r ood, nearly five feet in 
diameter, and stretching right across the whole 
breadth of the machine. 

“It beats me,” replied Wailes. “It looks like 
a hefty great fascine ; but what on earth is it for ? ” 

“That’s one of our little secrets,” answered 
Thomas with a chuckle. “The Boche has dug his 
Hindenburg line with a devil of a big trench, so wide 
that he thinks the Tank can’t get across. When we 
get to the trench, the driver inside pulls a chain, that 
great bundle flops down into the bottom of the 
trench, and over we go on top of it.” 

“And I’ll tell you another secret,” he continued; 
“the Tank Corps General is going to lead the attack, 
inside one of the Tanks of my section. This is the 
first real chance the Tanks have had, so the general’s 
going to make sure it’s a success by leading them 
himself.” 

“By Jove, that’s pretty hot stuff,” said Wailes; 
then added, “Well, good night, old man. I’m off to 
sleep.” 

The night was not entirely quiet, the enemy 
showing some signs of uneasiness, and further up 
the line there was a good deal of trench mortar 
activity. 


“ Brown, Red, and Green ” 93 

Field guns on both sides were quiet, ours de- 
signedly so, in order to rouse no suspicions, and on 
the whole it seemed as though the enemy did not yet 
suspect that anything unusual was occurring. The 
comparative quiet was a great contrast to the usual 
din of bombardment that hitherto preceded all our 
attacks, and Captain Wailes put in a useful five 
hours’ sleep. 

'At 5 a.m. he was roused by his orderly, who 
appeared with a cup of tea exactly as if they had 
been in rest billets ten miles behind the line, instead 
of out in the open a bare thousand yards from the 
enemy’s front line. A few minutes later and the 
men had breakfast, brought to them steaming hot by 
means of the food containers, lined with hay, that 
for the rank and file correspond to the officer’s 
thermos flask. 

At 5.45 the Tank Corps general arrived, carrying 
a long pole with a flag tied at the end. A minute or 
two later Thomas came across to have a final word 
with Wailes before the start. 

“Did you see the flag the general was carrying? ” 
asked Thomas. “These are the new Tank Corps 
Colours — brown, red, and green.” 

“Brown stands for mud and red for fire,” he con- 
tinued. “ I hope we finished up with brown at Ypres.” 

“What’s the green stand for? ” said Wailes. 

“You’ll find that out in about three hours’ time,” 
replied the other. “We hope it means that we shall 
get past these infernal trenches and out into the 
green fields beyond.”- 


94 Tank Tales 

The Tank Corps officer strode away, and Wailes 
went round to see that his company was ready to 
start. 

“Well, old pessimist,” he said, as he came up to 
Staley. “What do you think of it now?” 

“Ask me again in about twenty minutes’ time,” 
replied Staley gloomily. “It’s too damned quiet 
for me. I believe the Boche knows all about it, 
and every gun he’s got will start in about five 
minutes.” 

“Bet you five shillings you’re wrong,” said Wailes 
cheerily. “They’d have started long ago if they 
suspected anything.” 

“All right, it’s a bet,” replied the other. “That 
ought to help things a bit — you know I always lose.” 

At 6.5 the crews got into their Tanks and the in- 
fantry formed up behind. All was now absolutely 
quiet. The first signs of dawn appeared, and through 
the mist could be dimly seen the long lines of Tanks 
and waiting infantry. 

What a chance for the enemy if they had only 
known. From where Wailes was standing he could 
see the dark silhouettes of the Tanks behind which 
his company was standing ready. 

A short distance in front was the advanced guard 
Tank, only dimly seen in the mist; nearer 'were the 
two main body Tanks, each with its little cluster of 
infantry behind. But for the protecting darkness 
could have been seen similar groups at a few hundred 
yards’ interval stretching for miles along the British 
front. 


“ Brown, Red, and Green ” 95 

Here on the slopes of the hills were thousands of 
picked British soldiers without any protecting 
trench, and in front of them lay the Tanks, nine 
thousand tons of steel waiting to hurl themselves on 
the unsuspecting foe. Just behind were rows of 
British guns, piles of ammunition ready, waiting the 
word which would start them into life. 

In a quarter of an hour it would be too late. 
Now was the opportunity, waiting to be grasped 
by the unsuspecting enemy. 

But all remained quiet. Even the trench mortars, 
away on the left, had stopped, and but for an occa- 
sional sentry in their front trench the Germans slept 
on, unaware of the fate that awaited them. 

6.10, and the Tank engines started up, throttled 
down to their lowest limit to deaden the sound. The 
whole line crept forward, the Tanks ahead, leading 
the infantry towards the wire entanglements, which 
could just be seen in front of the German trenches. 

6.15 and our front line was crossed; we were 
through the British wire, specially cut beforehand. 

The moments were tense with excitement. Surely 
now — the men behind the Tanks thought — the enemy 
must see or hear. But no, the line moved nearer, 
eight hundred, seven hundred, six hundred yards 
from the trench, when . . . with a crash there broke 
out the opening of the British barrage. 

The Tanks’ throttles were opened, and aided by 
the slope they leapt forward at their top speed to the 
accompaniment of ringing cheers from the infantry. 

Very lights, rockets, S.O.S. signals went up from 


96 Tank Tales 

the Boche lines, but it was too late — the Tanks were 
on them. 

It was a most complete surprise, and the success 
of the attack was overwhelming. 

German infantrymen came swarming out of their 
dug-outs, to be met by a hail of bullets from the 
Tanks, or by the bombs of the infantry. A few 
machine-gunners got to their guns in time to pour 
some ineffectual volleys against the steel sides of the 
Tanks, and then were overwhelmed. 

Nothing could stop the onslaught of the Tanks 
and infantry. The line swept on, across the front 
trench, across the support trench, and down the hill 
to the village at the bottom. The village passed, the 
stream swept on along the valley, across the second 
Hindenburg system of trenches and up the hill be- 
yond. Here a halt was made, though some of the 
Tanks pushed on to farther objectives, to seize and 
hold them until fresh waves of infantry advanced 
to take them over. German field-guns, heavy 
howitzers, supply dumps, engineer parks — all were 
captured in the flow of that irresistible tide. 

The 2nd Loamshires reached their final objective 
with the men still fresh, though none of the work 
behind them had been left undone. Then the men 
were re-formed and set to work to constitute them- 
selves as supports for the fresh battalions which 
were already moving up to pass through and go on 
beyond. , 

Captain Wailes had just collected his officers to 


“ Brown, Red, and Green ” 97 

hear their reports, when two officers came up wear- 
ing the blue arm-bands which showed that they be- 
longed to the staff of the Tank Brigade. 

“I’m the brigade-major of the Tank Brigade,” 
said one of them. “How are things going ? ” 

“Top-hole,” replied Wailes. “We’re on our 
final objective, and so far as I can make out the 
whole battalion has only had about thirty casualties, 
and they’re mostly lightly wounded, while we’ve cap- 
tured at least two hundred Huns.” 

“That’s good,” replied the staff officer. “What 
about the Tanks? Were the gaps in the wire all 
right?” 

“First class,” replied the infantry officers. 
“Couldn’t be better.” 

“Yes, even our company pessimist can’t find any- 
thing wrong with this, attack,” remarked Wailes as 
he turned to Staley, who was looking almost cheerful 
for once. 

“Well, I’ll admit that I’ve been in worse attacks,” 
replied Staley cautiously, “and if we finish it off 
all right I’ll pay you that five bob.” 

“ By the way, did any of you see the Tank Corps 
general?” asked the brigade-major. “He was in a 
Tank somewhere about this part of the line.” 

“Did we see him ! ” exclaimed Wailes. “Why, it 
was one of our Tanks he went in, and he led the 
attack with his head and shoulders up through a 
hole in the roof, waving the Tank Corps flag.” 

“He’s a real man, is that general of yours,” he 
continued. “He got out of the Tank at the second 


98 Tank Tales 

Hindenburg trench, right ahead of everybody, 
planted his flag in the parapet, and by the time we’d 
come up he had thirty Huns round him with their 
hands up. I’m going to join the Tanks as soon as 
this show is over.” 

And that accounts for the fact that Temporary 
Captain (Acting Lieutenant-Colonel) Wailes is now 
commanding a battalion in the Tank Corps. 4 


COMMUNICATIONS 


“ Lanc'e-Cor'poral G , Tank Corfs. Awarded the Distin- 

guished Conduct Medal for conspicuous gallantry and devotion 
to duty. As chief wireless operator, after having erected the 
aerials, this non-commissioned officer remained at duty for 
eighteen hours continuously under heavy shell fire. On several 
occasions the aerials and masts were shot away, but on each 
occasion he went out and repaired the damage under an intense 
bombardment. By his initiative and courageous perseverance the 
wireless station was kept open during the whole action .” — London 
Gazette. 

Bald, of course, as usual, the above official announce- 
ment leaves one guessing and trying to fill in the 
blanks; and to do that it is necessary to realise the 
importance of communications during a battle fought 
on modern lines. With, as may easily happen, half 
a million men waiting to be flung into the firing line, 
with guns placed miles behind the point of attack 
and having to keep their fire an exact number of 
yards in advance of the attackers, with a battlefield 
that may cover a hundred or more square miles, the 
General commanding operations must be in constant 
contact with every part of his armies, even with those 
well to the fore of the battle. The difficulties ai;e in- 
creased when the enemy is deeply entrenched and 
invisible except, maybe, to a scouting airman ; while 
his guns are concealed in a thousand ingenious ways, 
so that it is necessary to have artillery observers 

99 


100 Tank Tales 

ranging the guns and telephoning back to the battery. 
With all these facts, to say nothing of the necessity 
for the supplies services getting prompt and accurate 
information from the front line as to requirements 
of ammunition of all kinds, it is evident that the 
communications of an army in battle are very often 
one of the deciding factors. Battles have been won 
or lost on the strength of effective or ineffective 
communications. 

If supplies do not arrive at the right moment, a 
whole Corps may easily be cut off simply because it 
has not the means of driving back an attack ; so that 
the communications between every part of the line 
and headquarters behind must be kept intact. If 
communications are not maintained, a hundred thou- 
sand reserves are as little use as one man ; reserves 
must be thrown into the battle at the right place. 

Every man in every army knows all this, and 
every army has brought into service any and every 
possible method for keeping up its communications. 
There are runners, men whose work may mean death 
at any moment, continually on the move over their 
appointed course; there are carrier pigeons which, 
taken up to the front line and to all manner of odd 
corners of the battle, are released when necessary 
with code messages tucked under their wings — frail 
links between the fighting line and those behind. 

There are telegraphs, telephones, aeroplanes that 
sweep through the air, spotting for the guns, peeping 
into every likely or unlikely place for hidden men or 
artillery, and dropping their signal bombs to indicate 


Communications ioi 

positions, or, maybe, wirelessing back details that 
tell the General Staff more than ever the old-time 
scout could have collected. 

There are flag-signallers relaying messages, while 
men with signal lamps carry on the work at night, 
and battlefields are dotted about with wireless in- 
stallations. In fact, a field of battle is a network of 
communications, and every branch is designed to 
prevent disaster and to effect the best and quickest 
results in an attack. 

The first thing after taking up a new position is 
to set up some means of communication with the men 
behind. The Engineer runs with his seemingly un- 
ending roll of wire, and his comrades carry tele- 
graph ot telephone instruments for this purpose; 
while the introduction of the Tank into warfare has 
provided a new means of communication between 
front and rear. 

The Tank, besides being a most formidable 
weapon, is also among the most reliable methods of 
communication, because its invulnerability to any- 
thing except direct hits enables it to take up very 
advanced positions, whence it can send back mes- 
sages either by its pigeons, which every Tank carries, 
by runner, or by wireless. Given a Tank that has 
wireless, it can forge its way well to the fore of the 
battle, and, taking up a position in a sheltered spot, 
aerials can be erected and the Tank turn itself into 
an up-to-date and efficient signal station with the 
power to communicate with Headquarters anywhere 
up to thirty miles away. 


102 Tank Tales 

Into such a station did the Tank “Viking” turn 
itself during the severe fighting when the British 
Army was forcing its way towards the Passchendaele 
Ridge in September, 1917. “Viking” was intended 
for signal purposes and not for actual fighting, and so 
it ploughed its way along behind the battle line in the 
wake of the advancing infantry. Polygon Wood to 
the right was a blaze of fire and a leaping shower of 
timber; the earth trembled with the tremendous roll 
of the artillery, massed in terrific strength ; waves of 
men stretching far across the pock-marked ground 
stumbled to death or to handgrips; homeric battles 
were fought at strong-points, and the whole ma- 
chinery of war was working at high pressure, with 
the Tanks, the latest machines, forging on, crushing 
their way forward through the muddy ground. 

“Viking” was ambling along, ready to take up 
position when the battle should cease towards even- 
ing — ready to act as sentinel and to give warning if 
the enemy should attempt a counter-attack, as it was 
-expected he would do before the night was fully 
come. 

Then came the moment when the “Viking’s ” crew 
knew that their part in the battle was to begin. 
The Tank crunched its way to a selected point, its 
men hot, grimy, and already having had a severe 
test by reason of the terrific shelling through which 
they had passed during their advance. There was 
quiet now, that is, comparative noiselessness, since 
little more than the bigger guns were firing — 
British artillery keeping the Boche Under cover in 


Communications 103 

his trenches, and German artillery shelling the 
British in the trenches and shell-holes that had been 
wrested from thejr former owners. 

As soon as they arrived, the “Viking’s ” men got 
busy at setting up their wireless masts, and crackled 
out a message down to Headquarters telling of their 
position and whatever item of news could be gleaned 
from the runners of infantry battalions stretched 
down the new line. Because the enemy had his wire- 
less which could tap messages, the “Vikings” sent 
off theirs in code, except when, as was sometimes the 
case, there was no time to turn a message into code. 

The Tank had not been long in position, before 
the enemy guns opened in force again. 

“That sounds as if they’re going to attack,” said 
Captain Naylor, commanding the “Viking.” 

“Likely enough, sir,” said Corporal Grover, the 
chief wireless operator, who was sitting at his in- 
strument and just sending off a message. “That was 
a near one ! ” 

A shattering roar that shook the stolid Tank 
drowned his words, so that the captain did not hear 
them, and then the universe seemed to have turned 
into a pandemonium as the German artillery rose to 
crescendo. Evidently the shot that had startled the 
corporal had been a stray one, because for some time 
no more fell anywhere near the Tank, but after a 
while affairs assumed a different aspect. Fire leaped 
and earth spurted up as a large number of shells fell 
near by, and the thing that Captain Naylor dreaded 
happened. 


104 Tank Tales 

The stay ropes of the masts were cut; the masts 
slid to an angle and seemed about to fall. 

“ Repairs ! ” ordered the Captain, and men tumbled 
out of the Tank to where the masts stood. It was into 
an inferno that they went, an inferno that spouted 
shrapnel and reeked of high explosives, but they 
worked there and replaced the smashed stays and 
hauled the masts into the erect again, while Corporal 
Grover was sending a message which a runner 
had brought up through the hail of death, ask- 
ing for reinforcements to be sent up to a certain 
section of the position that had been almost wiped out 
by the bombardment. 

For a while, although the firing lashed 1 backward 
and forward of the Tank position, no further hit was 
scored, and the “Vikings,” secure in their steel shelter, 
wondered how long the bombardment would keep 
on and when the enemy would attack, if he were 
going to do so, as the ferocity of the firing portended. 
Then the aerials were shot away, and again men 
went out to replace them. Hardly were they back 
in the 1 ank when a shell caught one of the masts 
and smashed it utterly. A spare mast was carried 
out of the Tank and set up, and the aerials connected 
to it; and .while this was being done Naylor and his 
corporal were on tenterhooks of anxiety lest news of 
the coming attack should reach them, and they not 
be able to get it through. Fortunately, however, the 
new mast was set up without anything* happening, 
and once more the Tank crew crouched in their steel 
home, waiting— waiting until the German artillery 


Communications 105 

reached 1 the limit of noise and intensity, and carried 
on so for long enough to convince them that an 
attack certainly was intended. Even so, they could 
not send down information to Corps Headquarters 
until they had some certain news as to which sector 
of the front was to be attacked. 

It was not possible for Naylor to see any move- 
ment on the part of the Germans : the position that 
the “Viking” had taken up was one that not only 
afforded some amount of shelter, but also, unfor- 
tunately, precluded the possibility of observation. 
What news the “Viking” could send down the line 
must come from the runners from the various 
battalion and company commanders who knew of the 
presence of the Tank and its purpose. 

“My God, they’re putting over some stuff!” 
breathed Naylor. “And — Hallo!” — this as there 
came a thumping on the steel hide of the “Viking.” 
Opening the door, he saw the white face of a man — 
an officer, who panted out a message as he stood 
holding the side of the Tank to support himself after 
a breathless run through the hell that reigned from 
the front line — four hundred yards away — to the Tank 
position. 

“Come inside, for God’s sake ! ” shouted Naylor, 
and he grabbed the man and drew him in. “What 
is it?” 

“Enemy massing — large numbers — counter-attack 
in map square K 26b ! ” was the breathless answer. 
“Tell the guns — send message clear — no time to 
code ! ” 


io6 Tank Tales 

“Right!” snapped Naylor. “Grover, get that 
through— repeat,” he told the officer-runner, who 
began again his fateful message. Grover’s hands 
were busy with his instrument now, and a moment 
or so more and he would have got that message 
through. But he lost the words that the officer 
spoke, because they were swallowed up in an explo- 
sion as a shell burst right alongside the Tank, and 
when he tried to get his message through the con- 
nection was destroyed. 

“Wire from the aerial gone, sir! ” he said, and, 
then without another word, went scrambling through 
the door, clambered 1 up the side of the Tank, perched 
himself on top, and groped for the broken end that 
was trailing there, where it had been snapped by a 
fragment from the shell. That wire must be re- 
connected to the aerial on top of the mast, whence it 
ran to the instrument in the Tank. He found it, and 
reaching over at a perilous angle, secured the other 
end, connecting the two. Then he dropped from the 
Tank and went inside, to take up ^his position once 
more at his instrument. 

“Hurry!” urged Naylor, but no man could 
hurry sufficiently to get out that message before 
another shell pitched right on top of the earth-mat, 
scattering the tangled wires in all directions, and 
rendering the instrument useless. This earth-mat, 
which constituted the earth connection for the wire- 
less, was simply a wire net laid upon the ground; 
but now it had simply disappeared and must be re- 
placed before the message could be sent. 


Communications 107 

“That’s done it! ” murmured Grover, who had 
darted out of the Tank again to see what damage 
had been done. “And we’ve got no spare mat! ” 

He stood th.ere for a moment or so, half dazed 
with the noise, and not knowing what to do, while 
the thought rioted through his brain that upon that 
smashed wireless probably depended the fate of the 
whole battle and the lives of thousands of men. 

He was a man wild with despair as he looked 
about him; and then laughed as he saw something 
that seemed like a gift of Providence : there, lying 
not many feet away, was a screw picket, one of 
thousands that are used with barbed wire entangle- 
ments. 

In a second Grover was over at it, seized it, 
carried it back to the Tank, and, working feverishly, 
screwed it into the ground. Then, straightening 
himself for a moment, he seized the snarled end of 
wire that had been cut asunder, drew out his knife, 
laid bare the wire under the insulation, and then tied 
it on to the top of the screw picket : and knew that 
he had established his connection. 

“ Good for you ! ” came Naylor’s voice as he 
peered through the door and saw what the corporal 

had done. “Come on in and 1 ” But Grover 

needed no hurrying now ; he knew what was wanted 
of him. He squeezed in through the doorway, and, 
trembling in spite of himself, sat down before his 
instrument, replaced the ear-caps, and started to send 
off the message that meant so much to the British 
Army around Ypres. Quickly he sent it off, in clear 


io8 


Tank Tales 


English, since there was no time to code, and, after 
all, what did it matter if the Germans did listen 
in and find out that the British had obtained an 
inkling of what was afoot? The attack had started, 
of that there was no' doubt, and it was too late for 
the Germans to call off their men. 

And, down at Corps Headquarters, a certain staff 
received the message. Then other messages sped along 
a hundred wires, runners went scurrying through the 
night, despatch riders tore off on motor-cycles, and, 
within a few minutes, the British artillery, having re- 
ceived instructions just where to place their pounding 
shells, were vying with the German guns; while a 
whole host of field greys found themselves caught in 
a leaping torrent of shrapnel and high explosive, out 
of which they could not extricate themselves either by 
going forward or by falling back. 

The counter-attack was nipped in the bud. 

And that, with some of the official blanks filled in, 
is how Corporal Grover, chief wireless operator of 
the Tank “Viking,” won his D.C.M. 


DITCHED 


Extract from Battalion Re fort : “ Tank No. 238 became ditched 
inside the enemy’s line, but the crew escaped and got back safely 
two days later.” 

Ypres, veiled in gas and smoke, lay a city of 
tragedy and heroism behind the advancing British 
line. 

It was not a “big push,” but a small affair; one 
of those oft recurring nibbles which, in other days, 
had been decisive battles. The attack, carried on over 
a muddy swamp that sucked in men and choked thein, 
had proceeded as well as could be expected — better 
than it could have done but for the Tanks churning 
their way forward, crushing down barbed wire and de- 
molishing trenches in spite of the villainous nature of 
the ground. 

The thin line of infantry kept faithful pace behind 
the advancing Tanks, ready to seize any oppor- 
tunities. 

On one flank thte fight went well, and the Tanks 
did their appointed work. On another sector there 
was a hitch. The dogged infantry, passing through 
the hail of high explosive and the reek of gas, 
saw, with something like momentary consternation, 
their guardian Tank pull up with a jerk, then 
109 


no Tank Tales 

rear on its stern, its tracks clanking round and fling- 
in g off mud in a spattering shower. There was no 
answering move forward or backward; no movement 
at all until, suddenly, the whole twenty-eight tons slid 
back into a grave scooped out by a giant shell. 

“She’s ditched ! ” gasped the men behind, as they 
plunged forward. 

“Hell ! ” muttered Captain Moore, as he extricated 
himself from the tangle of legs and arms where his 
crew had been flung in a heap. 

“Can’t we get her out, Long?” Moore called to 
the corporal in the driver’s seat; but Long shouted 
an answer above the clatter of his engines : 

“She won’t move, sir ! ” 

And the section commander cursed as he opened 
the door and crawled out to take his bearings. 

The Tank’s tracks were rattling round as Long 
tried to make her move, but in that quagmire there 
was no chance of progress; the caterpillars simply 
churned round and round until she sank deeper in 
the mud. 

“Shut off! ” Moore called back, and then went 
inside. “She’s stuck for the duration. It’s a devil 
of a mess, and the infantry will be — there it is ! ” 

The rat-tat-tat of machine-guns came at that 
moment, and the crew of the Tank knew that the 
enemy, who a few moments ago had been crouching 
with fear because of the coming of the Tank, were 
now smothering the advancing infantry with bullets. 

Though the Tank’s men did not know it, the 
infantry w r ere making a gallant effort to press forward 


Ditched hi 

despite the loss of their protecting monster. Like an 
unseen barrier the machine-gun fire held them up, 
and after a costly quarter of an hour they took refuge 
in shell-holes, or scratched themselves ditches, while 
S.O.S. signals were sent up for support. But before 
support could be given, before even the signals had 
died down, the Boche had swarmed up out of their 
trenches and, under cover of a murderous machine- 
gun lire, advanced to drive back the attacking force. 

Then, fighting in grim desperation, the British 
were forced yard by yard back to their own trenches. 
The bunkered Tank was left in the shell-hole a quarter 
of a mile inside the German lines. 

The clamour of battle died down, and Captain 
Moore, abandoning his efforts to get his Tank to 
move, climbed up the shell-hole and peered round. 

“We’re dumped right behind the Boche, Jen- 
kins,” the section commander told his lieutenant 
when he went back from his reconnaissance. “A 
devil of a mess.” 

“And the beastly thing won’t move an inch! 
We’ve lost the unditching beam; the wretched thing 
must have been dragged off,” Jenkins told him. 
“What are we to do; going to try to get back? ” 

“A pretty fine chance we’d have of doing that ! ” 
Moore told him with a short laugh. “Reckon we’re 
stuck here; but — we’ll try to get her out.” 

Jenkins laughed. There was nothing else to do, 
when one thought of trying to dig such a monster 
machine out of a quagmire, with Heaven knows, how 
many enemies on either hand. Still, a Tank crew 


ii2 Tank Tales 

is always ready for “navvying,” and Moore’s men 
shoved their way through the doorway and began to 
ply spades and picks, while one man, lying on the lip 
of the shell-hole, kept watch for any sudden move 
on the part of the Germans. For some time the work 
went on without any more interruption than that 
which resulted from having to dig out men as they 
sank in the mud. 

“Look out— they’re coming! ” the “observation 
post ” snapped over his shoulder, and then slid down 
the greasy side of the shell-hole as his comrades dived 
for the shelter of the Tank. 

Inside they waited tensely, quietly. 

“ Hold your fire, men ! ” Captain Moore said to 
his crew as fingers trembled on Lewis gun triggers. 
“ Let ’em get nearer and then give ’em hell ! ” 

“ Right, sir,” the corporal said. 

“Think we’ll do? ” Lieutenant Jenkins suggested 
a few moments later, shifting a little to allow Moore 
to peer through the slit. 

“Pretty good, I think,” the captain said calmly. 
“Ready, men? Then give it ’em. Fire! ” 

Like the bursting of a storm that has been long 
brewing those Lewis guns spat forth their stream of 
bullets in a widening volume. The line of Germans 
wavered as the men met its fury, then pressed on, 
and with cheers tried to reach the shell-hole whence 
the trouble came. 

“ Putting the wind up the beggars ! ” the corporal 
said. It was a pleasure to speak and hear now that 
the engine had been stopped and the Tank was quiet. 


Ditched 113 

“You bet! ” grinned Gunner Cassidy, as chirpy 
as a cricket now, although he had a rooted objection 
to petrol fumes. “Don’t mind the bally row — but the 
smell makes me sick,” was his invariable grouse when 
his Tank went into action. “What do you think of 
that lot ? ” 

Moore, bending down and looking through the 
port-hole, saw what the man had referred to : a bunch 
of Germans had suddenly swung round and made a 
move forward in open formation. They were at the 
point where only one gun could get at them — and 
Cassidy made good use of his weapon. He drew it 
from left to right, in a beautiful curve, and the 
Germans were caught on the circumference of the 
circle of bullets. 

“Pretty good, that,” the captain said. “Ah — 1 
reckon they’ve had enough ! The beggars are 
bolting.” 

The Germans were receiving a taste of rushing 
a machine-gun nest, for such the ditched Tank had 
become, and. although they were in large numbers, 
they could not pass the whistling ring of bullets. The 
Tank crew saw them tumbling back into the trenches 
from which they had come. 

“What next?” Jenkins asked. 

“Well, it’s getting dark now; try another digging 
job,” Moore told him. “Tumble out, men ! ” 

The crew wiped the perspiration from their faces, 
and emerged from their steel hot-house. Throughout 
the night they dug away in the oozing mud, but for 
all the good they did they might have spared their 


ii4 Tank Tales 

energy; the Tank refused to budge when the engine 
was set going again. 

“How much food have we got, Jenkins? ” 

The lieutenant crawled back into the Tank and 
made an inspection of the provisions. 

“About enough for thirty-six hours,” he said, 
^showing his head through the door. “Not that we’d 
be exceeding rations at that ! ” 

“All right,” Captain Moore called back. “We’ll 
hang on. Perhaps something may happen during the 
day, or in the evening. We can’t hope to get back 
now that the light’s growing.” 

So, since the dawn had come, and to work any 
longer at the digging operation was to run the risk 
of being sniped, the crew squeezed back into the 
Tank and had their first meal in the German lines. 

“ If our chaps make a move to-day to try and finish 
off the job,” Captain Moore said, poising a piece of 
bully beef on a biscuit, “we’ll be all right. The fact 
is, the situation is a good one.” 

The light that came through the loophole where 
one man was keeping a lookout, showed up the faces 
of the crew, and it was evident they did not under- 
stand their “skipper’s ” idea. 

“ How, sir ? ” Long asked, pulling down his water 
bottle. 

“Oh, we can enfilade the Boche while he’s trying 
to hold our chaps off,” Moore said calmly. “It’s as 
good as a pill-box ! ” 

The crew settled down to their long vigil with the 
noise of artillery coming from all directions, and the 


Ditched 115 

sentry — each man took his turn at the work — could 
see the activity going on in the German lines as 
smashed trenches were repaired, the dead and 
wounded were removed, and preparation was made 
against the time when, as was evidently expected, a 
fresh attack would be made. 

The hours seemed interminable, and there was 
always the thought that the Germans might train one 
of their big guns on to the Tank and smash it. Every 
time an aeroplane droned over their heads there was a 
chance of a bomb upon the stranded derelict. More- 
over, there was a limit to the ammunition in the Tank, 
and if the enemy threw a large number of troops into 
attack there might be little chance of holding^iem. 

As the long afternoon wore on, Captain Moore 
set the men to work cleaning up the Tank until it 
was as spick and span inside as when it first came 
from the works. A Tank’s crew believes in a clean 
Tank as a gunner believes in a clean gun. 

“Wish the beggars would begin something,” 
growled the corporal. 

“Oh, that’s all right, Long,” Moore said; “some- 
thing’ll happen when it’s dark.” 

He was right. It was eleven o’clock that night 
when the Germans came. Long, who was on sentry- 
go, with his head thrust through the manhole to 
get a better view, dropped back into the Tank with 
a short cry : 

“Look out below; they’re coming ! ” 

Instantly every man was at his post with the Lewis 
guns ready in their mountings. 


n6 Tank Tales 

“Sure they were coming, Long?” the captain 
said after some minutes of silence, “lliey re a long 
time getting here.” 

“They’re coming, sir,” the corporal assured him. 
“I didn’t see how many; only caught sight of a man 
crawling along, and I reckon he was one of the party. 
Of course, he might be only coming over to spy 

and ” Long’s voice was lost in a tremendous 

burst of sound, and poisoned fumes filtered into the 
Tank. 

“They’ve come, sure enough!” Jenkins jerked 
out, peering out into the night, and men looking 
through the port holes could see crawling figures 
making for the Tank. 

“Let ’em have it, men ! ” rapped out Moore, and 
although another exploding bomb drowned his voice, 
the men behind the Lewis guns knew what was 
expected of them, and swept the ground before them 
with bullets. The Germans sprang to their feet to 
rush at the Tank, but now they scattered before the 
hail of lead; some pitched forward into mud graves, 
others floundered back, one or two courageous souls 
held on to hurl their bombs, but after the next burst 
of fire all the attackers had gone. 

“Ah! that’s that!” gasped Moore. “My word, 
there’s a show somewhere ! ” 

He dismissed their own affair immediately as the 
gunfire reached a crescendo that told of an attack 
some distance away, and the cooped-up men in the 
Tank again waited for the help of their comrades. 

But, dog-tired and tormented with thirst, they 


Ditched 


117 

waited in increasing anxiety for — nothing. They 
fought against the desire to sleep, although during 
the day they had slept in relays, or tried to sleep, 
almost afraid to do so lest attack found them un- 
ready. They fought against despondency. As the 
attack did not materialise they fought, too, against 
the desire to swing open the chilled steel door and 
make a rush for escape. 

“While we’ve got some food and ammunition 
we’re staying,” was the captain’s decision. So they 
stayed — with a battle proceeding down the line. 

At three o’clock the monotony was broken. 

“Tumble up, men!” the captain cried; and the 
drowsing crew were at their posts in an instant. The 
dawn showed them a large body of Germans advanc- 
ing to the attack from all sides — not carefully, but 
speedily, as though they had timed the whole thing 
for making a rush in the fading twilight. 

It was the uncertain light that enabled them to 
get so near without being seen, and to make straight 
for their objective. It was the fact that they were 
advancing all round that prevented the Tank from 
smashing the attack immediately. The Lewis guns 
chattered angrily, and the bullets laid many a Boche 
low, though the rest held on, and their bombs burst 
shattering on the Tank. 

There came a pause; men could be seen crawling 
away in agony — they were allowed to go. Others, 
splashing in the mud, went down. The second attack 
had failed like the first. 

There was silence then, except for the cries of the 


ii8 Tank Tales 

wounded out in the mud and the choking coughs of 
the men in the Tank, as the acrid fumes of the bombs 
filtered into their lungs. 

“Some scrap,’’ Jenkins said, between two attacks 
of coughing. 

“The beggars won’t fancy another one, I reckon,” 
Moore grinned back at him. 

A clank as of a hammer on the steel roof put a 
stop to his words, followed by another clank and a 
slither as of someone slipping from a perilous 
perch . 

“Someone on top,” shouted Moore, and he was 
at the manhole in an instant. Three times his revolver 
snapped, and the Boche who was trying to find an 
opening to throw his bombs, dropped into the sea 
of mud outside the Tank. 

“A real live bomb inside would make a mess of 
things,” laughed Jenkins' shortly, as the captain 
reloaded his revolver. 

That was the feeling of all during the next day, 
as they remained in their fort constantly expecting 
the attack, hoping for the advance that never came, 
trying to make a biscuit do the work of three and 
one water bottle the work of half a dozen. 

They wondered, too, what would happen when the 
ammunition was used; there was precious little left 
now. A council of war was called at mid-day, and the 
haggard, blackened councillors came to the conclu- 
sion that to remain would render them useless at the 
moment of attack owing to the shortage of food and 
ammunition. 


Ditched 119 

“We’ll go to-night, then,” Moore said, s as calmly 
as a schoolboy planning to break bounds; “we’ll 
smash up all we can in the old bus so that she’s no 
use, then we’ll try to get back to our line. Get busy, 
men ! ” 

With a will the men fell to work with heavy ham- 
mers. They smashed the engine and all those parts 
likely to be of use to the enemy, and when it was done 
sat down for a snatch of sleep while the sentry kept 
watch. So they waited for nightfall. 

“ All ready, men ? ” Moore asked at last, and 
whispers of assent came from the gloom of the now 
useless Tank. The captain opened the door, and 
swung it to quickly as a score of Very lights went up. 
“ Damn — something doing ! ” 

The Boche, in his nervousness, was letting off 
Very lights in case there should be something doing. 

The lights died away ; darkness settled down 
again ; men waited, with tensely strung nerves, 
wondering 'whether was safe to go yet. 

“Come on, men,” said Moore presently, and 
once again the door opened; the crew followed their 
skipper, crawling up the filthy mud-side on to the 
firmer ground above. 

It was pitch dark — yet the friendly darkness was 
unkind in that it hid them from each other. In single 
file, however, they went, each reaching out before 
moving forward for the foot of the man who should 
be in front of him, scarcely daring to breathe, fearful 
lest even the slight squelching of knee in mud should 
be heard, wondering whether a light would flare 


120 Tank Tales 

up again, and yet half hoping for no matter what to 
end the awful tension. 

No man spoke, though more than one wanted to 
shout with the dread that not even the bravest can 
shake off. Slowly the line moved forward, and — 
always the feeling hand found the slimy boot ahead — 
then suddenly progress stopped. Moore turned back 
and put his mouth close to the ear of the man behind 
and told him that he was going on to reconnoitre 
alone. 

He went, and while he went his message was 
whispered down the line of seven men. 

Moore had heard a sound in front that warned him 
of the proximity of men — they could only be Germans. 
He crawled to spy upon them, guessing he was near 
the trench he must cross. After a few moments of 
breathless creeping, he lay on the very lip of the 
trench listening. 

The lights of war were blazing over the line, and 
the captain, as he slipped to ground when a Very light 
burst in a glare above him, wondered how his men 
were faring — whether they had been caught in the 
blaze. He dared not lift his head to look. 

The light died down, and after a while Moore 
hunched himself up on his hands and knees again and 
began to crawl along parallel with the trench, looking 
for a place to cross. 

He found a levelled section at last. On either side 
of it were men, who were crouching with alert ears. 
Yet even so the passage would have to be taken. 
Having made this discovery, he began to creep from 


Ditched 12 1 

the trench back by the way he had come, to his 
men. 

His groping hand touched one that was wet and 
cold, and a sharp intake of breath told him it was 
that of a living man. It was Jenkins who was there, 
and they had both almost fired their revolvers in the 
nervous tension of the moment. 

“It’s all right, Jenkins,” the captain whispered. 
“Get the men moving after me.” 

A few seconds later the crawlers were moving 
forward again. Moore led them to the edge of the 
trench that he had reconnoitred, cutting across the 
littered ground so that he came right to the place 
where the sides of the trench had fallen in. 

There was no need for an injunction to silence 
them; the men were afraid to breathe — almost afraid 
to move. Yet move they must ; and when Moore crept 
over the wreckage they followed, silently, slowly. It 
was a tense moment, because a man might tumble, a 
smashed weapon or a loose stone might be disturbed. 
There would be little chance of getting away if that, 
happened. 

Yet the trench was crossed, and before them 
stretched No Man’s Land, with a ragged line of 
tangled German wire between them and safety. 

There remained the making of a way through ; and , 
the men crawled up with their captain and worked 
with him in snipping the wire. Each time a cutter 
went through it seemed like the crack of a rifle to the 
over-strained men, and the tinkle of a loose strand 
on a taut stretch made them hold their breath in terror. 

i 


122 Tank Tales 

Barbs tore the groping hands and caught at the mud- 
caked uniforms. 

Yet the luck of the brave was theirs. They passed 
the wire and lay exhausted in the mud. There was 
yet another stretch of wire to cut through — no less 
dangerous, for the alert Tommies there would shoot 
at a sound. 

But it was good to be near that wire — good even 
to feel the tearing barbs of it when the passage was 
begun — so good that these men wanted to shout with 
joy when they stood beyond it. Then 

“ Halt ! Who are you ? ” 

The words fell sharply upon the night air. It 
seemed that the whole German army in front must 
hear them. 

“Don’t shoot— it’s a British officer ! ” cried Moore, 
with a catch in his voice. 

A few sharp words of inquiry from the sentry — a 
few replies that satisfied — and then across the stretch 
of land that lay between the outpost and the trenches 
eight weary, famished, aching men trooped with 
heavy feet and light hearts, after nearly seventy 
hours in the German lines. 


THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 


There is no doubt that the Whippets caught the 
popular fancy both inside and outside the Army. 

The old original Tanks had their good points, but 
they were undeniably slow ; nearly 30 tons 'of metal 
and only a 105 horse-power engine did not make for 
speed, while the necessity of standing still to turn 
or change gear made them slower still, and also 
rendered them an easier mark for the enemy field 
guns. 

A much lighter Tank, however, with a powerful 
engine and a speed on good ground of nearly eight 
miles an hour was a very different story. Well- 
trained drivers, also, could manoeuvre their machines 
almost as easily as the steersman of a motor launch, 
with the result that the German gunners found them 
an almost impossible target. 

The first time the Whippets went into action was 
during the British retreat in the spring of 1918, when 
they suddenly appeared in the middle of the battle 
round a little village named Colincamps. The Ger- 
mans had reached one edge of the village and our 
men were still holding out on the other when a few r 
Whippets came up on the flank, and both sides paused 
for a moment to watch them. And then an extra- 
ordinary thing happened; for the Germans thought 
123 


124 Tank Tales 

that here at last were their own well-advertised Tanks 
that they had long been expecting, while our men, 
who had never seen the Whippets before, also 
assumed that they belonged to the enemy. 

So the Germans stood up in their trenches and 
cheered, waving helmets on the top of their rifles to 
welcome their new allies, and the British troops, 
thinking the game was up, began to look round for a 
line of retreat. 

A few sharp bursts of machine-gun firg from the 
Whippets, however, quickly showed which side they 
were on, and after a few minutes the lately exulting 
Huns — those that were left of them— were being 
shepherded to the prisoners’ cage, while our 
men were crowding round and admiring the 
new machines. 

The next appearance of the Whippets provided 
one of the most striking episodes of the War, and the 
story is as follows : 

It was on April 23rd, 1918, and the British Army 
was standing with its back to the wall, in front of 
Amiens, after the long and exhausting retreat from 
St. Quentin. At about 10 o’clock in the morning 
Captain Nash, commanding a section of the new 
medium Tanks, .was seated in the Nissen hut that 
served as his headquarters. 

Outside, clustered under the shelter of some trees, 
were the machines of his section with their crews 
round them oiling and cleaning. 

Nash looked up as a young Tank commander 
named Barr entered the hut. 


Charge of the Light Brigade 125 

“ Hullo,” he said, “ Is your Tank all right ? ” 

“Oh, the Tank’s right enough,” replied Barr, 
“but I’m fed up with sitting here doing nothing. 
t When the deuce is this new push by the Boche 
coming off ? ” 

“Don’t ask me,” answered the section commander, 
“it may be to-day or it may be next Christmas. All 
I know is that we’ve got to be ready for it when it 
does come.” 

“As a matter of fact,” he added, “there was the 
devil of a lot of firing going on down south an hour 
or two' ago, but it seems to have fizzled out, and ” 

His words were drowned in the ear-splitting hoot 
of a motor horn ; it was followed by the clatter of an 
engine, as a motor cycle came to a halt outside, and 
an orderly dashed into the hut and handed the captain 
a note . 

“Here, Barr,” rapped out Nash sharply, as he 
hastily scanned its contents, “fetch up the other 
officers and have all the crews start up the engines. 
We leave in five minutes.” 

And when the officers came running over to the 
hut they learned that the moment for which they were 
waiting had arrived— the Germans had launched 
another attack and were gaining ground. 

“The Huns have taken that ridge,” said Nash, 
running his finger down the map between Villers 
Bretonneux and Hangar Wood. “We’ve got to 
counter-attack and take them on the flank of the 
salient. All ready? Come on, then.” 

Nash’s Whippet led the way and the clanking, 


126 Tank Tales 

snorting cars followed him at their topmost speed. 
There was no need to wait while the route was recon- 
noitred, because, with the knowledge that at any 
moment there might be a call for help from any of the 
far-flung positions, all this had been done before. 
It was broad daylight, not yet noon, and they had 
many miles to go before they could come within easy 
distance of the threatened positions ; there was not 
even the friendly cover of a cloaking mist as they 
whirled their way over the shell-torn fields. 

“They’re in full swing over there,” Captain Nash 
shouted to his corporal, who was driving, while Nash 
himself and the other man were sitting behind their 
Hotchkisses, waiting. 

“ Yes, sir, we’re only just in time,” called the 
corporal over his shoulder as he heard the throbbing 
voices of the guns growing louder and louder. 

Presently, above the noise of the engine, they 
heard the less deafening but more terrible clatter of 
machine-guns. Then, as the Tanks drew nearer the 
men could see the great bellying clouds of smoke in 
the distance, the woolly puffs of bursting shrapnel 
and the up-rising clouds of earth flung up by high 
explosive. To the right they could see Hangar 
Wood — a charnel house; a wood that had once 
had trees in the leafy beauty of spring, but now 
owned but ,a few stumps that had defied the scream- 
ing shells. 

To the left lay the pitiable wreck that had been 
Villers-Bretonneux ; red-tiled fragments stood out 
against the drab desolation, fragments that even then 


Charge of the Light Brigade 127 

were reduced to the level of rubble heaps. The first 
assault by the Germans had succeeded, and they were 
keeping up the barrage to hold off any counter-attack 
by the British, who, they knew, would not easily 
forfeit the ridge. 

Down on the forward slope German infantry were 
hastily digging themselves in and making a rough 
line of the old trenches; every shell-hole was turned 
into a machine-gun nest by the captors, and what 
had so lately been a good defensive position 
held by the British had become a series of 
strong-points that might cost many lives to recap- 
ture by assault. 

Now they saw the Tanks, running like ants in the 
distance, and crouching closer in the trenches trusted 
that they could not cross the shell-broken debris- 
littered ground in front. 

But the Tanks swept on ; the grinding noise of 
the engines and the clanking of their tracks mingled 
with the bark of the Hotchkiss guns to drown the 
vicious tic-tac of the German machine-guns. And 
then above all rang out the cries of men as the irre- 
sistible Whippets passed over them like the cars of 
Juggernaut at their sacred festival. 

Shell-holes and trenches from which the British 
had been driven but a little while before became the 
covered-in graves of German infantry; rapidly im- 
provised machine-gun nests lost their identity; and 
still the Tanks pushed up the hill with a trail of red 
behind them. It was Nash’s Whippet that reached 
the summit first with a score or so of Germans scurry- 


128 Tank Tales 

ing in terror before it. The Huns hurled themselves 
over the top of the ridge and went tearing down the 
other side, while the Tank lay poised for a moment 
with Nash staring through a loophole, scarcely able 
to believe his eyes. 

Down there on the plain below were masses of 
grey-clad troops, a whole brigade kneeling in the 
open, waiting. 

Nash at last realised what was afoot. This was 
the second phase of the German attack ; the rush that 
had taken the ridge was but preparatory to a bigger 
affair in which a wide sweep and a deep thrust were 
to be made. 

“Our chance!” muttered Nash, as the Germans 
seemed to come to life when the other Tanks appeared 
behind the first Whippet. “Our chance ! ” 

And down the slight slope he went, with his 
section following him, eager, every man of it, to take 
their great opportunity, for which cavalry would have 
given their very sabres, if only for the joy of sweep- 
ing through those closely-packed ranks. 

Twenty men against two thousand — these were the 
odds these youngsters took, in the twentieth century 
charge of the light brigade. 

The Germans, as soon as they realised the inten- 
tion of these modern cavalry, began firing from rifles 
and machine-guns, almost panic-stricken. They 
knew that nothing but direct hits from field-guns 
could hold up the Whippets; that they could not be 
stopped as the horsemen of other battles had been 
stopped, by snicking bullets. And they knew what 


Charge of the Light Brigade 129 

the machines could do when once they got among 
living men. 

It was a very hurricane of fire through which they 
swept along, and the Hotchkiss guns in the Tanks 
coughed out their own stream of death. Field-greys 
dropped like ninepins, others turned and rushed in a 
panic — herding together in wild confusion. The 
German guns broke out into action at the Tanks, 
but their quick movement made them awkward tar- 
gets. The high explosives ploughed up the ground 
and made the descent perilous and “jerky,” but the 
Tank men drove boldly downward, and Nash had 
reached the level ground when there came a terrible 
crash from behind. 

No time to stop firing and look round; but if he 
had he would have seen his second Tank rocking to 
a standstill with a great hole yawning in her side 
where a shell had gone biting in, to shatter the men 
inside. Twisted and torn the Tank dropped to 
silence, and the Whippets that were churning 
behind it swerved clear of the obstruction, and 
crackled out their deadly fire, taking grim toll in 
vengeance. 

Nothing could stop the charge, indeed, and the 
eonfusion of the infantry became a very pande- 
monium of fear when the surviving Whippets 
touched the level and swung towards the dis- 
organised brigade. 

It was useless now for the German guns to fire, and 
but for the pattering rifle and machine-gun bullets, 
the Tanks found nothing to stop them in their clatter- 


130 Tank Tales 

ing charge which at last brought them full in among 
the enemy. 

The Tanks had no mercy. 

The infantry melted before them, and though here 
and there heroic bands tried their best to> hold the 
position, yet within half an hour the whole brigade 
had been driven from its jumping-off place, whilst the 
British guns behind the ridge plastered them with 
death in their withdrawal ; and up the far side of the 
ridge British infantry were pushing, “mopping up” 
and driving out the few Germans who had escaped 
when the Tanks passed by. 

The Whippets turned back, turned away as 
though even they were sickened by the grim horror 
of that field where men lay dead or dying. 

Up over the ridge and down the other side — 
British infantry making passage for them and cheer- 
ing them wildly — tihey went; and so down to the 
level beyond, across which they clanked for home, 
having, as later events showed, nipped in the bud 
another attempt of the Germans to drive through to 
Amiens. 

One by one they throbbed to a standstill at the 
Tankodrome, and the grimy sweating men stepped 
out. 

“What about some lunch?” said Nash as he 
issued from his stuffy box. “Good Lord ! ” he pulled 
out his watch. “ It’s only three o’clock.” 

“Late enough too,” one of the subalterns said, 
“I’m hungry! ” 

“Late enough,” echoed Nash. “Why man, it’s 


Charge of the Light Brigade 131 

only four hours since we were asking whether any- 
thing was ever going to happen 

“Well, it’s happened,” said Barr with a grin that 
had no touch of mirth in it. He turned and looked 
at his Whippet. 

“ God ! ” he said. “ Look at that ! ” 

Half a dozen pairs of eyes looked at the Tank — ; 
its steel sides were splashed with red. 


FAILURE 


It must not be thought that the story of the Tanks is 
one of continuous successes. The history of the Tank 
Corps, like any other history, contains some black 
pages ; battles when even the elements seemed to fight 
against us; battles where rain, mud, and snow com- 
bined with the ordinary mechanical difficulties in a 
way which appeared to be almost overwhelming. 

There are stories in the Third Battle of Ypres of 
Tanks trying to plough through mud where a man 
could scarcely walk — glorious stories of pluck and 
heroism against superhuman difficulties, but, alas, 
stories of failure. 

Throughout these times there were not wanting 
those who condemned the Tanks as a waste of material 
and money, useless for the practical side of war. “It 
is all right in theory,” officers would say, “but when 
you get down to the actual battle it doesn’t work.” 
That the Tanks have lived through these failures and 
survived to prove their immense value in modern war- 
fare has been due to the unswerving faith and con- 
fidence of the officers and men of the Tank Corps 
itself. There were many ups and downs in the fight, 
but the Tanks won in the end. 

The 1 8th of November, 1916, was one of t)he 
bad days, and as Captain Jakes, of the Tank Corps, 
132 


Failure 


i33 


trudged along to report at Infantry Brigade Head- 
quarters, he contrasted bitterly the high hopes of 
success with which he had started from England and 
the dismal failure of that day’s battle. Starting out 
at midnight for the approach march, Jakes’ section of 
four Tanks had not gone more than a mile before one 
Tank broke down completely. An hour’s work at the 
engine failed to put the trouble right, and the Tank 
had to be left behind while the other three pushed 
on so as not to be late at the starting-point for the 
attack. 

The night was dark and the ground was in a 
frightful state from the constant rain of the last few 
days; in this stage of the Somme battle there were 
many places in the area that resembled the swamps 
round Ypres, shell-hole almost touching shell-hole 
and the loose earth converted by the rain into a quag- 
mire. Then, to add to their troubles, it began to 
snow, and another Tank came to grief by side-slip- 
ping into an old trench that the driver could not see. 
The crew were left hard at work on the job of digging 
out, while the remaining two Tanks pushed on 
through the blinding snow. They arrived at the 
rendezvous with only a few minutes to spare before 
the attack was timed to begin, and with no time for 
the drivers to rest after their trying journey. 

The two Tanks started at zero from about 400 
yards behind our front line, and Jakes followed them, 
hoping against hope that their troubles were now 
over. Alas, the leading Tank fell through a dug-out 
built under the parapet of the front trench, and the 


134 Tank Tales 

other had not advanced more than 200 yards into 
No Man’s Land when a chance shell burst right on 
top of the starboard track and broke it completely. 

Jakes had worked with the rest to try to extricate 
the Tank that had fallen through the dug-out, but all 
their efforts were unavailing, and the Tank settled 
deeper and deeper in the slimy mud. The men 
worked like Trojans, planks were torn ,up from the 
trenches and dug-outs to place beneath the tracks 
of the Tanks in order to give them something to grip ; 
stout pickets torn from the barbed-wire entanglements 
were thrown in to give some stability to the loose 
wet earth, but all to no purpose, and after three hours’ 
wearying work they realised that their task was hope- 
less. A few months later all Tanks were equipped 
with an “unditching beam,” a stout baulk of timber 
carried on the roof and guaranteed to extricate a Tank 
from almost any hole. 

In the days of the Somme battle, however, the 
crew had to rely upon their own efforts with pick and 
shovel and the assistance of any logs of wood that 
could be collected on the spot; but thirty tons of 
metal is a formidable weight, and in wet weather 
the unditching of a badly bellied Tank often proved 
impossible, as in this case. 

Parties of wounded straggling back only added 
to the dejection of the Tank Corps men. The attack 
had proved a failure and the troops in front were held 
up by wire, wire that might have been crushed and 
machine-guns that might have been knocked out if 
only the Tanks had got there. 


Failure 


i35 


So here was Jakes on his way to report the failure 
of the Tanks to the infantry brigadier. Soaked to 
the skin, tired out and hungry, he tramped along 
through the drizzling snow, cursing his luck. Less 
than three months before, Jakes had started from 
England full of enthusiasm and confidence in his 
section and proud of his four brand-new Tanks that 
were going to lead the British Army to Berlin. Now 
he was a failure, all of his Tanks out of action with- 
out firing a shot; and, worst of all, he had failed the 
infantry, who had relied on them for the attack. To 
this boy, not yet twenty-one years old, the outlook 
seemed absolutely hopeless, and as he came to Brigade 
Headquarters to report his failure he felt that he could 
never feel more wretched than at that moment. But 
he was wrong; a few hasty words from an officer who 
ought to have known better were to fill his cup of 
misery even more full. 

Arrived at the chateau which served as Infantry 
Brigade Headquarters, Jakes knocked at . the door of 
the brigadier’s room and walked in. Blinded for a 
moment by the light, he stumbled as he entered, and 
then saluted and stood at attention, with his wet 
clothes dripping on to the floor. There were a num- 
ber of officers in the room, and the general was sitting 
at the table studying a map. He looked up as Jakes 
entered, and asked sharply : “Who are you ? ” “I’m 
the Tank section commander, sir,” replied Jakes. 
“I’m sorry to report all my Tanks are broken down 
— none of them got into action.” 

Now, the general was not really a harsh man ; if 


136 Tank Tales 

he had thought for a moment he would have realised 
that the boy in front of him was tired out, wet 
through, and thoroughly miserable. But the general 
was in a bad temper; the attack had been a failure, 
and the breakdown of the Tanks had been most 
annoying. Here was somebody on whom his 
annoyance could be vented, and without consider- 
ing whether the officer standing there was really to 
blame, the general proceeded to tell him off. (This 
is not a pleasant story, but I am relating what actually 
occurred.) 

“Your Tanks are useless,” said the brigadier. 
“They have caused the failure of the whole 
attack. I was told that four Tanks would co- 
operate with my brigade, and not a single one did 
anything.” 

In a few biting words the general then said what 
he thought about Tanks in general and this section 
in particular, ending up his remarks with some sar- 
castic words about the stupidity of putting boys in 
charge of machines like Tanks. 

“Go away now,” he added. “I don’t want to 
hear what happened to your damned Tanks.” 

“Very good, sir,” replied Jakes, as he saluted and 
walked out of the room. 

Out again in the snow and mud, his heart full of 
rage and misery, he felt as if there could be no more 
wretched mortal in the world than he. To fail was 
bad enough, but to be blamed for what was not his 
fault was worse, while the disparaging remarks about 
the value of Tanks attacked the very roots of his 


Failure 13 7 

military faith. With the words of the brigadier ring- 
ing in his ears, Jakes walked away from the Brigade 
Headquarters in black despair. 

* * * * * * 

It was almost exactly a year later; to be precise, 
it was November 20th, 1917, the first day of the 
Battle of Cambrai. 

The divisional commander was coming back in 
the afternoon from a visit to the advanced head- 
quarters of his brigades. The attack had been an 
overwhelming success, and all the brigadiers reported 
that the infantry casualties had been extraordinarily 
light. The Tanks had swept all before them; there 
were no reports of wire uncut by the artillery, because 
the Tanks had made the paths along, which the 
infantry had followed. There were no regrettable 
incidents where one enemy machine-gun had held up 
the advance of a whole infantry brigade and caused 
some hundreds of casualties; the Tanks had walked 
over the machine-guns or knocked out their gunners, 
whose weapons were useless against the steel sides of 
these machines. 

The divisional commander was pleased; the divi- 
sion had done magnificently, and had captured their 
final objectives, taking prisoners nearly 2,000 Huns. 
On the way back to Divisional Headquarters the 
general saw some Tanks clustered together at their 
rallying-point, under the protection of a small copse 
of trees. “We’ll just go across there,” said the 
general to his A.D.C., “and see the Tank company 

j 


138 Tank Tales 

commander. I want to congratulate him on the 

success of his show.” 

So they left the car by the roadside, and walked 
across the field to a bivouac where the Tank Corps 
flag was flying. The general looked inside, and an 
officer stood up at the sight of the gold lace. “Are 
you the Tank commander?” asked the general. 
“Yes, sir,” replied the officer. “Well,” continued 
the general, “ I want to congratulate you on the mag- 
nificent work your Tanks have done to-day. All my 
brigadiers say the Tanks were splendid, and it’s 
thanks to them the total casualties in the division are 
less than three hundred, and at least a hundred of 
those are lightly wounded and still at duty. Will 
you kindly tell your officers and men that I’m proud 
to have had them with my division ? ” 

“Thank you, sir,” replied the company com- 
mander. “I’ll tell the company what you have 
said.” 

The general was just turning to go when he 
caught a look in the young officer’s eyes which made 
him pause. 

“ What’s your name ? ” he asked. “ I seem to re- 
member having met you before.” 

“My name is Jakes, sir,” replied the other slowly. 
“My section of Tanks was working with your brigade 
on November 18th last year, and I came and reported 
to you that all my Tanks had failed to get into 
action.” 

A look of recognition dawned on the general’s 
face — he remembered now, and the picture of that 


Failure 


139 

last meeting came into his mind, of the white-faced, 
wretched-looking officer standing at attention while 
he had abused him so cruelly. 

“So you still remember that, do you ? ” he asked. 
“Yes, sir,” replied Jakes steadily. “I remember 
every word you said.” 

The general turned and walked away, but the 
name of Major Jakes headed the divisional list of 
recommendations for the D.S.O. 


REST 


The Headquarters Staff of the Tank Brigade usually 
breakfasted late on Sunday morning; this morning 
they were particularly late, and for a very good 
reason. The Brigade had taken part in the great 
Tank attack ten days previously and for the following 
week had been fighting a series of scrappy, hastily 
arranged actions such as usually follow a big affair. 
The three weeks before the attack began had been 
occupied in a perfect whirl of preparations, recon- 
naissance, train movements, conferences, arid orders, 
while the minor attacks which succeeded the big one 
had meant for the Brigade Staff days and nights of 
hurried activity. 

Now, however, the Tank Brigade had been with- 
drawn for a well-earned rest; the Tanks had come 
back some miles and assembled near the railhead, and 
at the same time Brigade Headquarters had moved 
back to a comfortable hutted camp some miles behind 
the noisy turmoil of the battle. The Tanks were only 
waiting for trains to take them away, and the whole 
Brigade would go back into the training area for a 
period of rest and refitting after their arduous labours. 

It was therefore the wrong side of 9 o’clock before 
the Headquarters Staff were all sitting down to break- 
fast, and there was a general feeling that strenuous 
140 


Rest 141 

work was over for the present. The holiday spirit 
was abroad. 

“I’m going to motor over and have a look at the 
new area,” remarked the Brigadier; then, turning to 
the Brigade-Major, “You’d better come with me, 
Douglas.” 

“All right, sir,” replied Douglas. “What’s 
everybody else going to do? Someone had better 
stay and mind the shop, though there’s absolutely 
nothing doing.” 

“Brown and I were thinking of going over to 
Bapaume to get some mess stores,” said Forrest, the 
Staff Captain. “We also want to get our hair cut.” 

“And I’m going down to Nagoire to see what 
sort of condition the Tanks are in,” said Lennan, the 
Tank engineer. 

“Well, that looks as if Johnson will have to hold 
the fort — and while you’re at it, Johnson, for heaven’s 
sake do something to that telephone of mine. The 
explosions in the ear-piece were simply deafening last 
night.” 

“Very good, sir; I’ll give you a new one,” replied 
the signal officer, and, knowing the general’s pecu- 
liarities with the telephone, he made up his mind to 
replace it with tne one which had been discarded two 
days before. The cars were ordered for ten o’clock, 
the mess corporal set to work cutting sandwiches, 
and, bar accidents, it looked as if the brigade signal 
officer would be the sole representative of the staff 
left at headquarters for the rest of the day. 

But Vhomme propose et le diable dispose, and 


142 Tank Tales 

in this case the devil was the Hun. It was about five 
minutes to ten, and Douglas was just leaving the office 
to go off to the car, when the telephone bell rang. 

He lifted the receiver casually, hoping that it 
wasn’t some stupid business that would make him 
keep the general waiting, but the first words made 
him start with surprise and grab a piece of paper 
and pencil. It was the corps general speaking, and 
this was his message : “The enemy attacked this 
morning and have broken through our lines. They 
have captured Grandcourt and are still advancing. 
Get all the Tanks you can into action and co-operate 
with the troops on the spot to try and hold up his 
advance.” 

“Right, sir. Half a moment; I’ll get hold of the 
brigadier,” replied Douglas, and a hasty shout from 
the entrance of the hut brought the general hurrying 
across. 

A few moments at the telephone and the general 
was outside again with his mind made up. 

“There’s only one thing to be done, Douglas, 
and that’s to get down to Nagoire as fast as we can. 
Get hold of the others; we’d better all go.” 

“Very good, sir. I’ll just telephone through to 
the battalions to tell them we’re coming and warn 
them to stand by.” 

A few minutes later the whole brigade staff started 
off in motor-cars for the eight-mile run to Nagoire. 
The signal officer took with him a couple of field- 
telephones and a coil of wire that he thought might 
come in handy, and at the last moment the general’s 


Rest 143 

batman, Monk, had run up with the sandwiches and 
a thermos flask. The road to Nagiore was straight 
and in excellent condition, so they made good time ; 
but Douglas felt slightly uneasy at the significant 
rumble of gun-fire that could be heard to the north- 
east, especially when he reflected that Grandcourt 
was only a bare 5,000 yards from Nagoire, while the 
corps commander had said that the Huns were still 
advancing. It would be very awkward if the Tank 
brigade staff arrived at Nagoire to find that the enemy 
had got there first and that the town was already in 
their possession. His fears were groundless, how- 
ever; they arrived at the village to find, it is true, a 
scene of the most frightful confusion, but the enemy 
was reported to have got no further than Grandcourt 
Wood, still 4,000 yards away. 

The cross-roads were like Piccadilly Circus at the 
beginning of an air raid; everybody seemed to want 
to get to somewhere else, but didn’t quite know where. 
Parties of men who had been working on the roads 
straggling back, motor-lorry convoys with ammuni- 
tion and supplies doubtful about going forward until 
they knew whether there were British or Germans 
waiting to receive them, heavy gunners whose guns 
were now in enemy hands — all were converging on the 
cross-roads; while every now and then the angry 
whistle of a shell overhead showed that the enemy 
had begun to get his field guns forward. 

So far as the Tanks were concerned, it must be 
admitted that the position was one of complete un- 
readiness. They had finished their job and had come 


144 Tank Tales 

back to rest. It was only a question of a few hours 
before the trains would arrive that were to take them 
back to refit, so there was only just about enough 
petrol to get them on the train and off the other end, 
while ammunition was rather short. Most of the men 
and a good few of the officers were away at the baths, 
having, a clean-up and getting a change of under- 
clothing, badly needed after their strenuous exertions 
of the last few days, so it looked as if some time must 
elapse before the Tanks could get into action. 

A hasty conference between the brigadier and the 
colonels of the three Tank battalions which formed the 
brigade showed that the most urgent need was petrol. 
Runners had been set to collect the officers and Tank 
crews, ammunition was being loaded into Lewis gun 
drums, men were at work oiling and greasing up, but 
everything was useless unless they could get a few 
hundred gallons of petrol. 

“What about it, Forrest?” asked the general, , 
turning to the staff captain. 

“Well, sir,” replied Forrest, “the main dump is 
at'Grandcourt, so that’s no good. But we had a small 
dump in Solitaire Wood that we’ve just handed over 
to the other brigade.” 

“Never mind that; go and get the stuff. Bring 
back all you can, and for God’s sake hurry ! ” 

Forrest ran off down the hill, doing some rapid 
thinking. The wood where the petrol was stored was 
about a mile away in the direction of Grandcourt. 
It would take too long to collect horses and wagons; 
there was only one thing for it — the light railway. 


Rest 145 

At the bottom of the hill there was one of the main 
stations on the light railway system, and a branch 
line ran right into Solitaire Wood close to where the 
dump was located. A few words to the Canadian 
engineer in charge of the station were enough to 
make him realise that this was an emergency when 
rules and regulations must be thrown aside, and in 
less than five minutes Forrest trundled out of the 
station yard with a line of trucks pulled by a couple 
of petrol-tractors. They arrived at the dump to find 
the storekeeper quite firm that he wasn’t going to 
part with any petrol without an indent signed by 
the staff captain of his own brigade. 

“All right,” said Forrest; “if you don’t want to 
let us take the petrol out of store we’ll move the 
whole dump, and you with it, back to Nagoire.” 

A few cavalrymen standing near gave a hand, the 
whole of the stuff was loaded on to the trucks, and 
the train beat the world’s light-railway record back 
to Nagoire. 

By the time they got back the rest of the officers 
and men of the Tank battalions had begun to arrive, 
hurrying back in response to the urgent orders they 
had received. Willing hands made light work of 
carrying the petrol up the hill to the Tankodrome, 
where the cases were hastily stripped open and the 
precious liquid poured into the almost empty reser- 
voirs of the Tanks. 

Some of the machines were waiting repairs, lying 
with tracks uncoupled and sprockets removed; guns 
and ammunition were stripped from these to fill up 


146 Tank Tales 

the other Tanks that simply lacked these to be ready 
to move. The whole Tankodrome was a hive of 
activity, officers working with the men in frantic 
haste to prepare the Tanks for action. 

In the meanwhile the general was just wondering 
how he could get in touch with corps headquarters, 
to let them know how things were going, when John- 
son came up and reported that he had got a small 
signal office started, and had rigged up a telephone 
in a hut that would serve as a temporary brigade 
headquarters. Nobody quite knew how Johnson did 
it, but there are rumours that he was seen at the 
top of a telegraph-pole in Nagoire High Street join- 
ing up wires; and it is a fact that within half an hour 
of their arrival he had fixed up a direct telephone line 
to the corps and had also got communication with two 
of the divisional headquarters in the neighbourhood. 

The corps reported that reserves were being hur- 
ried up as fast as possible, and the Guards division 
was going to counter-attack at twelve o’clock to try 
to recapture Grandcourt, a most useful road-junction 
which, from its commanding position, was of vital 
importance. The Tanks were to move as soon as 
possible, some to support the Guards and help to 
secure Grandcourt if the attack was a success, others 
to clear the ridge running south from Grandcourt to 
Avalon Farm. 

An hour later the infantry had deployed and were 
advancing against Grandcourt, undeterred by Ger- 
man shells and bullets, moving with exactly the same- 
precision as if carrying out a manoeuvre on Laffan’s 


Rest 147 

Plain. Some fell, but the rest went on, and with a 
dauntless charge captured the village, established 
themselves beyond, and for the moment the German 
rush was stayed. But the situation, though improved, 
was by no means good ; the ranks of the Guards were 
weak when they came out to rest, and had been still 
further depleted by casualties in this attack. Grand- 
court was recaptured, but this was simply an island 
thrust out against the waves, and the situation both 
to the south and north was still critical. 

In that part of the line the defence consisted 
merely of a few handfuls of men hastily got together 
from all sorts of units and quite incapable of resist- 
ing a further determined attack. But now the Tanks 
were moving up, some making for the ridge to the 
south of Grandcourt, others to the north, and a few 
to go right through the village itself and clear the 
ground beyond. Douglas went off to Avalon Farm, 
and there he met the commander of one pf the Tank 
Battalions, Colonel Rogers, who had gone on ahead 
to find out the situation before the Tanks came up. 

“Who’s holding the ground in front, sir?” asked 
Douglas. 

“Oh, a few odds and ends,” replied Rogers. “The 
Boche seem to be collecting down in the valley below 
Droit Wood, and it looks as if they were going to 
start another attack. Hallo, here come the Tanks.” 

Across the road past the farm went the leading 
Tank, others close behind, while more could be seen 
in the distance coming along from Nagoire. 

“That ought to settle any other attack by the 


148 Tank Tales 

Boche,” thought Douglas as he started off on the 
road to Grandcourt. 

It was now about two o’clock in the afternoon, 
and the British Tanks were beginning to appear in 
all directions. Hurrying along the road, soon after 
leaving the farm, Douglas came across a wounded 
German lying by the roadside dying, clear evidence 
that the first rush of the Boche advance had reached 
this point. Half-way to Grandcourt Douglas was 
hailed by an officer who was standing up in a trench 
a little distance down the slope to the east of the 
road. This officer was actually a subaltern in the 
R.G.A., but he explained that after his guns had 
been captured he had turned himself into an infantry- 
man and put himself in charge of the defence of that 
part of the ridge. 

His command consisted of a heterogenous col- 
lection of Garrison gunners, infantrymen, a few men 
of the Labour Corps, and some sappers who had been 
working on the roads when the first rush came. This 
officer’s appearance was in keeping with the mixed 
nature of his unit, as he lacked a hat or any sort 
of equipment, except his coat, while his legs were 
attired in a pair of khaki slacks, and on his feet he 
had a pair of dancing-pumps. This queer-looking 
individual was very anxious to know what Douglas 
thought of the way in which he had disposed his 
troops. 

“You see, I don’t know much about this sort of 
thing,” he explained; “but I’ve spread ’em out as 
much as possible, and we’ve got lots of ammunition.” 


Rest 149 

“Your dispositions are magnificent,” Douglas 
assured him. “Hold on here; there’s help coming 
up fast.” 

Arrived at Grandcourt, Douglas found the Guards 
in possession and busily engaged in improving the 
defences. Tanks had gone through to the north of 
the town, and others through the town itself, to 
break up any further attack the Boche might be 
contemplating. The German guns were active, and 
some of the Tanks had paid the penalty of their 
attack in daylight in full view of the enemy ; 
two were burning fiercely, and others lay with 
their steel tracks twisted and torn by bursting shells. 
The Tank Corps suffered on that afternoon from the 
loss of many gallant officers and men, but there is 
no doubt that their intervention was a deadly blow 
to the Boche attack, while it heartened enormously 
those of our own men who were still holding out 
along the ridge. Strange to say, although the enemy 
had been in possession of Grandcourt for several 
hours, yet none of our heavy guns had been damaged, 
while, most extraordinary of all, the big dump of 
ammunition and petrol for the Tanks had been left 
untouched. 

Back at Nagoire, Douglas found that another 
batch of Tanks had left to take up a position in 
Grandcourt Wood, where they were under .the orders 
of the Guards Division. Later in the evening came 
orders that another twenty Tanks were to co-operate 
with the Cavalry from the south in an attack which 
was to be launched at daybreak next morning. 


15° Tank Tales 

So at about nine o’clock in the evening the 
Brigade reconnaissance officer, Captain Brown, and 
Douglas set out again to find the Cavalry Division 
Headquarters, reported by the Corps to be at a 
certain map reference, which was not very certain, 
but the place could not be mistaken because of a very 
distinctive “lone tree” alongside. 

Lone trees, however, are not so easily located on 
a dark winter’s night, and it was more by luck than 
judgment that Brown and Douglas found it at about 
midnight. 

Half an hour’s talk with the Cavalry Staff fixed 
the arrangements for the attack at dawn, and the 
two officers, pretty tired by this time, went off to 
meet the Tanks and direct them where to go. Gallant 
deeds were done that day by the Cavalry attacking 
from the south and by the Guards from the north ; the 
Tanks, too, created havoc amongst the Boche in 
Droit Wood and on Durward Ridge. 

Men that were there speak of Droit Wood as a 
shambles of German dead, many of them crushed 
beneath the Tanks, while from a short piece of trench 
on Durward Ridge they dug out afterwards twenty- 
six machine-guns that, with their crews, had been 
dealt with by a Tank. 

By now, too, reserves had poured into that 
dangerous gap, and by the evening of the second 
day the situation was no longer critical ; the German 
rush had not only been held, but he had been driven 
back a part of the way he had come. 

Brown and Douglas got back to their temporary 


Rest 15 1 

Brigade Headquarters about 9 p.m., pretty well tired- 
out after their strenuous time of the last thirty-six 
hours. The General was out, gone over to Corps 
Headquarters, but he returned before they had 
finished their meal ; he was fagged out, too, but still 
kept cheerful. 

“What’s the news, sir?” they asked. 

“Oh, it’s all right now,” replied the General. 
“That charge of the Guards at Grandcourt did the 
trick, and the Tanks coming up finished it off. Re- 
ports from all along the line are that fhe situation is 
now well in hand.” 

“Well, Douglas,” he added, “what do you think 
of the first two days of our rest ? ” 

But Douglas didn’t answer. He had fallen 
asleep. 


AN ALLIED OPERATION 


General Order No. 

“H.Q. me Division d’lnfanterie. 

“The Battalion of British Tanks fought yes- 
terday with the French Division. 

“Commanded by an experienced and skilful leader, 
Lt .-Colonel , the Tanks again enriched them- 

selves with laurels, which the new arm has not ceased 
to gather since their first appearance in August, 1916. 
They have given the division the finest example of 
bravery, energy, of comradeship in action and of war 
training carried to the highest degree of perfection. 

“Their assistance enabled the infantry to gain a 
brilliant victory which they themselves largely shared. 
If sacrifices to be deplored were the price of this 
success, the officers and men who fell gave an example 
of how a British soldier can die for King and country. 

The Division hereby addresses to its British 

comrades the touching expression of its gratitude and 
admiration.” 

Like the Navy, the Tank Corps was a silent service 
during the War ; one heard very little about it, though 
occasionally the London Gazette came out with a list 
of awards to gallant Tank men, and maybe a press 
152 


An Allied Operation 153 

correspondent managed to get home a paragraph or 
two telling of little exploits. This absence. of informa- 
tion had a curious effect. The people at home, while 
they knew that the Tanks were proving successful 
weapons, did not realise— and probably do not now 
realise — that they changed the whole character of war. 
In effect, the Tank was the British answer to the 
German war of stabilised lines and of pill-boxes; and 
if the Tanks had not come when they did, and if they 
had not been used as much as they were, the War 
would have gone on much longer. On the other 
hand, if the Tanks had received cordial approval 
earlier, and if there had been more of them, the War 
would have been finished much sooner. However, the 
Tanks came at last, and the War was got rid of, and 
now we can give some idea of the offensive conducted 
with the aid of a Tank battalion. It was not merely 
a case of a general deciding to employ Tanks with his 
infantry, and thereupon throwing them into the 
battle. There was something more in it than that; 
and that was the reason why Lieut.-Colonel — Moods, 
let us call him — commanding the not-to-be-named 
battalion of the Tanks, groaned to his staff when a 
’phone message informed them that in six days’ time 
his battalion was to co-operate with a French infantry 
division in an attack to the south of Moreuil. 

“Our friends the French of that division have not 
fought with Tanks before,” the colonel volunteered as 
information to his officers. 

1 

“Wh’ich means, sir,” the major said, “that we’ve 
got to do some training with them, I suppose.” 

K 


154 Tank Tales 

“Quite so, Brand,” the O.C. agreed; “and we’ve 
got to go up right away to begin it. The French 
division is about twenty miles from here, and, so that 
the Hun shan’t know anything, we’re to move during 
the few hours of darkness that we’ll get.” 

It being the middle of July, there were not many 
hours during which the Tank Battalion could travel 
in the cloak of darkness. There were the fighting 
Tanks to be moved up, the Supply Tanks, and all the 
thousand and one different stores required by the 
battalion ; and such a large force on the move in day- 
light would be certain to put the Germans wise to 
impending happenings. 

Down at the Tankodrome at Bus-1 es-Arlais Lieut. 
Colonel Moods got his men to work soon after re- 
ceiving his orders; and when the summer night 
deepened, the first section moved off and ground its 
way forward along the chosen route. Although he 
had six days before the attack was scheduled, the 
colonel did not regard that as any too much time, and 
he wanted the whole of his battalion to be in the 
show; therefore the time that elapsed from the start 
until the Tanks arrived at the French Divisional 
Headquarters was by no means free of anxiety for 
him. True, he had chosen what he considered a safe 
route, but there was never any telling when the Ger- 
mans might take it into their heads to do some long- 
range firing in order to make things uncomfortable 
along the roads leading to the front lines. Moreover, 
prowling night-hawks might conceivably catch a 
glimpse of the shadowy moving hulks ; besides, Tanks 


An Allied Operation 155 

had a way of getting internal disorders just when 
they were not wanted. In fact, all manner of things 
might happen during a twenty-mile trip along dark 
routes, and it was, therefore, with a sigh of relief that 
the O.C. received the report of the last section com- 
mander to come in. 

“Damn lucky, that’s all I can say,” Moods said 
when he heard that one Tank only had failed to make 
the rendezvous. 

“And Hanley was like a raging bear, sir,” the 
section commander volunteered. “ His crew are work- 
ing like mad on the Tank, and he hopes to get up 
before the show is over.” 

“I dare say,” laughed Moods, who had before this 
known what it felt like to be “left ” with a Tank that 
refused to help itself. 

The Tanks were worked into camouflaged posi- 
tions to protect them from inquisitive airmen ; and 
then the crews tumbled in, grateful for the provision 
that the French had made for them. 

Morning — and the beginning of hard work. 

The colonel called his company commanders and ' 
reconnaissance officers into conference, talked the 
whole thing over, and then waited upon the French 
general to> discuss the business further. 

Monsieur le General spread the war-map over the 
table, and entered into details of the ground over 
which the attack was to go. He indicated the enemy 
positions that were to be taken. After a while Moods 
expressed himself satisfied that he knew exactly what 
was required. 


156 Tank Tales 

“I take it, sir,” he said, “that you will provide me 
with officers who know the ground, to show us over 
it? ” 

The French general was courtesy itself, and de- 
tailed an officer or two to do what was required. With 
them the colonel, his company commanders and 
reconnaissance officers went out in parties, prospect- 
ing for the Tanks. The work was often under shell- 
fire, and naturally led up to very near the German 
positions. Very necessary work it was, because the 
most suitable area in which the Tanks could operate 
had to be selected ; routes, too, were taped as far as 
was practicable in the early stages, to be continued in 
the hours immediately preceding the attack. The 
work took some time, and often had to be done over 
again as the result of conferences between the parties 
concerned. At last, however, it was finished, and 
then began the task of working out details of the 
operation by the French and British commanders. 
Not the least thing was omitted or neglected; the im- 
pending battle was fought on the map and carried 
to the hoped-for conclusion. 

When all this was done, the battle began in mimic. 
Nine companies of French infantry carried out tacti- 
cal exercises in co-operation with the British Tanks — 
drill which was strenuous and intensive in character 
because it was essential that every man of the infantry 
should know exactly what was required of him and 
what was his relationship to the Tanks. By the 
22nd the Frenchmen were very tired, but also very 
enthusiastic; so that, when zero hour (5.30 a.m. 


An Allied Operation 157 

on the 23rd) arrived they were in high fettle for 
the battle. 

The Tanks had moved up to their appointed start- 
ing places, arriving a few minutes before zero, and 
picking up the infantry in the pre-arranged manner. 
Meanwhile the French guns put over a tremendous 
barrage, which, beginning an hour before, probably 
gave the enemy a good indication of what was im- 
pending, although they did not know about the 
presence of the Tanks. 

The ground to be covered was undulating, and 
the area chosen for the Tank operations presented 
very few obstacles to progress, although a number 
of woods holding machine-gun detachments would 
have to be cleared before the infantry could safely 
go ahead to their objectives. The game would have 
been much simpler but for the fact that a heavy rain 
just before the attack rendered the ground slippery, 
so that the tracks did not always grip as they should 
have done, while the ensuing ground mist made 
visibility poor. Here and there heavy enemy shell- 
ing had pitted the ground, so that now and then a 
Tank came a temporary cropper, but managed to get 
on the move again very promptly. 

Acting according to the schedule, “A” Com- 
pany of the Tanks, advancing ahead of the infantry, 
attacked Rachis Wood, clearing the enemy from it 
by its shower of shells and machine-gun bullets; and, 
after smashing a number of enemy machine-guns at 
the eastern end, made for Sauvillers village. Here 


158 Tank Tales 

the Tank company had a set battle with the Germans, 
but, advancing relentlessly, crushed all opposition so 
speedily that the Tanks occupied the village a quarter 
of an hour before the French infantry came up. 
After skirting Sauvillers Wood, which was assigned 
to “ B ” and “ C ” Companies of the Tanks, they 
crossed the French line at the appointed time, two 
hours after zero, and two sections of “ C ” Company, 
moving one on each side of the wood — which was too 
dense to allow them to enter — used their guns with 
such deadly effect from the outside that but little 
opposition was met with until the western end of the 
wood was reached. The section did gallant work and 
deadly, but nevertheless the enemy held on until a 
reserve Tank coming up proved too much for them. 
Despite the density of the wood, the new-comer, realis- 
ing that the position was so strong that the reduction 
of the position was absolutely essential to success, 
pushed in among the trees, spraying machine-gun 
bullets in every direction and making the enemy bolt 
like hares. Meanwhile, the Tanks outside were shell- 
ing the inner section of the wood, and making it so 
hot that the frightened Germans, who had thought 
themselves secure even against the Tanks, finally gave 
up and surrendered in batches. 

The battle had now become general, and the Ger- 
man artillery was making vigorous attempts to hold 
off the Tanks, and so frustrate the French endeavours. 
Slowly but relentlessly the Tanks pressed on, and the 
French infantry, showing remarkable aptitude, took 
every advantage of the protection and the clearing, of 


An Allied Operation 159 

posts afforded by their British comrades. Strong 
points were reduced, woods were enveloped, and stern 
hand-to-hand fights went on in places where even the 
Tanks had to give place to infantry. 

The attack was going exceedingly well except 
at Bois de St. Ribert. Here a dozen Tanks had 
crawled up out of the mist, with the French patrols 
keeping in touch with them, and moving up as oppor- 
tunity presented itself. Then, however, something 
happened that changed the complexion of things; the 
patrols lost touch with the Tanks in the mist, and 
the latter found themselves in the air. There was not 
a very strong resistance, and the artillery fire was 
not so heavy as to render successful attack impossible 
or too costly . Yet, because the infantry were lost, the 
twelve Tanks could not carry the wood, since it was 
impossible without infantry to do the “mopping up ” 
that was essential if the wood was to be cleared and 
the way opened for the later waves to pass on without 
fear of being attacked in the rear. 

It was useless for Tanks to go forward while this 
remained undone, so they cruised about for some- 
thing like an hour with runners out trying to get in 
touch with the French. During this time they 
smothered the wood with fire, and also countered 
artillery fire from batteries that were concealed in 
various spots. Eventually the Germans, seeming to 
realise that something had gone wrong, concentrated 
upon the destruction of the Tanks, and a battery that 
had hitherto been silent opened fire. It lay concealed 
to the south of St. Ribert Wood, and it had waited 


i6o Tank Tales 

until the Tanks were in such positions that it would 
be an easy matter to get direct fire against some of 
them . 

Then came disaster to the Tanks. Drenched in 
their own smoke, and moving amidst a series of 
violent and quick successive volcanic eruptions as the 
German shells dropped among them, they were 
caught. 

A terrific crash, followed by a burst of flame that 
died in a cloud of smoke, told the company com- 
mander that one of his units had gone out as a ship 
goes out in a sea-fight. Before the company had 
realised it, another Tank followed its consort into 
shattered destruction ; and the remainder tried to 
throw out the German gunners by tacking in all 
directions, while they sought to locate the battery. 
They could not, and very shortly a third Tank stopped 
dead, with smashed engines, and mangled crew lying 
among the wreckage. 

Three more met a like fate, and the commander 
realised at last that there was nothing for it but to 
fall back for the moment. 

Meanwhile, “A” and “C ” Companies, with whom 
the infantry had succeeded in keeping in contact, were 
engaged in a “mopping up” process, clearing out 
valiant little parties of Germans who had till then 
held on to their positions and been bothering the 
infantry ; and when that was done the Tanks pushed 
forward, escorting the infantry to the objectives set 
for these particular men. 

Having dealt with the enemy in Sauvillers Wood, 


An Allied Operation 161 

"B” Company of the Tanks split up; and three 
sections of it escorted their infantry to the north of 
the wood and swept on to the plateau, crushing 
trenches, reducing pill-boxes to dust, and countering 
artillery fire so effectively that the Germans 
were compelled to give way in nearly every 
position. Those who did- manage to escape the fury 
of the Tank tornado were surrounded by the French, 
who, in as grim a piece of fighting as took place 
during the day, cleared the plateau, after which the 
attack was pressed on to the left of the wood. 

The fourth section to the south and south-east 
was also busy, and experienced heavy fighting — and 
losses. . The enemy was ensconced in such strong 
positions and so many that the Tanks could not cope 
with them in the time allotted, with the result that 
the French, although connections were admirably 
kept, could not get through without risk of severe 
loss. 

The section commander had handled his three 
Tanks in excellent manner, leading them right on 
to the enemy positions and playing the deuce with 
them, until concealed batteries succeeded in knocking 
out two of the machines. 

The remaining Tank, by brilliant handling, 
managed to elude the heavy shelling, and its com- 
mander, realising that the still uncleared posts that 
dotted the field behind were proving insurmountable 
obstacles to the French, swung his machine round, 
and drove it grinding down the way it had come. A 
company of infantry was picked up and piloted 


162 Tank Tales 

through the danger zone; and, having seen them to 
thek objective, the Tank went back, as it did several 
more times, to fetch up still more Frenchmen. 

The Germans, who had expected the attack to fail 
when they knocked out the two Tanks of Section 
“B,” did their utmost to finish off the survivor, which, 
however, passed through the torrent of fire, and, by 
fine shooting, both with 6-inchers and machine- 
guns, chaperoned the infantry past the obstacles; 
and, having got the last man through, returned to 
the appointed rendezvous. 

Sections “A,” “C,” and “D” spread out like a 
protecting fan, smashed down to the left of the wood, 
destroying what little opposition was made, and 
bringing their charges into position. 

One ‘Tank proceeded farther than was intended, 
and, before it realised what had happened, found 
itself fighting a whole division of Germans. Although 
the work that had been assigned to the Tanks was 
completed, the commander of the foremost machine 
decided to accept the challenge that the German 
division flung over in the shape of a tremendous 
machine-gun fire — quite useless ! — and of a heavy 
short-range artillery bombardment — not quite so 
useless, because it was not at all unlikely that a shell 
might find an unfortunate mark. The Tank blazed 
away at such positions as were considered worth while 
to demolish, and after a mad quarter of an hour or 
so, during which the machine managed to evade 
being hit and succeeded in smashing several posts, 
it withdrew to its appointed rallying place. 


An Allied Operation 163 

The operations had been in progress for almost 
four hours, and the objectives to be reached with the 
aid of the Tanks were in the hands of the French. 

-Columns of Germans were streaming back to the 
“cages,” and the field of battle was a field of the dead 
and wounded — grim evidence of the severity of the 
fighting at places; while demolished pill-boxes and 
broken trenches testified to the efficiency of the 
Tanks. 

At their rallying point lay the surviving Tanks, 
great squat things with red-splashed sides, and their 
men, grimy and hot, were looking over them to see 
that things were ship-shape for the return — while the 
German guns smothered the positions that had been 
won by the French, in case an extension of the 
victory should be contemplated. 

Actually that was in the wind, for the officer 
commanding a supporting battalion of infantry 
decided that the demoralisation of the enemy and 
the enthusiasm of his own men warranted going 
beyond the original objectives. He held a conference 
with the officers commanding “B ” Company of the 
Tanks, who, although he had only seven of his 
machines fit for action, instantly agreed to the plan 
to attack Harpon Wood — a very strong position 
which it was desirable to occupy now that the oppor- 
tunity had come. 

The Tanks split up into two parties, and, ap- 
proaching the wood from two sides, cleared the way 
in very quick time for the infantry, which kept in 
touch and swung on with great elan. 


164 Tank Tales 

The Frenchmen swarmed over the smashed 
trenches and into the murderous wood; while the 
Tanks countered the heavy artillery fire. There were 
grim doings indeed. Two Tanks, caught by cross- 
fire, were smashed and dropped to inert helplessness, 
with flames bursting out of them. One Tank, with 
its stream of Frenchmen behind, made direct for a 
German gun which was making too good practice ; 
and the Tank’s 6-inchers, shrapnel charged, played 
havoc with the gun team. The few survivors, scared 
by the approaching monster, bolted, and the French- 
men, racing past the Tank, spread out and covered 
the position behind. 

Meanwhile the Tank got to work again. 

“Our prize! ’’ shouted the Tank commander as 
he brought his machine up to the gun. “We’ll yank 
the old thing back ! ’’ 

The Tank was swung round, the men got out the 
hawser, and, working under a heavy fire — the Ger- 
mans at various points had realised what was happen- 
ing, and machine-guns spat viciously at the labouring 
men — they hitched the deserted gun to their machine. 

“Get in, men ! ” cried the Tank commander; and 
when the men were in and the steel door had clanged 
to, ‘the engines started up again, the Tank heaved its 
great hulking weight forward, the hawser tautened, 
held, and the gun trundled along. 

Harpon Wood was won — Harpon Wood and the 
original objectives of the attack. Even the French, 
famed for their elan in attack, were amazed at the 
results achieved in so short a time, and knew that 


An Allied Operation 165 

the British Tanks had contributed in no small degree 
to the success; while the Tank Battalion realised that, 
despite their brief, hurried training, the infantry — the 
first French troops to operate with British Tanks — 
had proved adepts in the art of Tank warfare. Spoils 
of battle numbered nearly 2,000 men (mostly un- 
wounded who had thrown down their arms at the 
approach of the Tanks), nearly 300 machine-guns, 
over 40 trench mortars, and five field-guns. 


A BIT OF BLUFF 

There are some things that not even Tanks can do, 
and one of them is to sail through the sea of mud 
that heaves and ripples like the very ocean itself and 
cloys as the Sargasso water-forest cloys a ship’s 
propeller. Mud is, in fact, about the only thing that 
will bar their progress — not even Hindenburg’s 
special “tank traps ” or the anti-Tank rifles being half 
so effective. If the Germans could have turned all 
Northern France into a morass, then the Tank might 
have stopped in its victorious career. 

What mud can do for Tanks — and what bluff may 
do to make good inherent defects — was well shown 
at Beaumont Hamel on that great day the 13th of 
November, 1916. All preparations had been made 
for the attack, which was to achieve the capture of 
Beaumont Hamel and Beaucourt; and half a score of 
Tanks had been detailed to lead the way. 

“They’ll be absolutely no good,” said the Tank 
Battalion Commander, as he dangled his legs down 
the tier of boxes in the Advanced Divisional Head- 
quarters the night before. “They could grind Beau- 
mont Hamel to powder, and the remains of Beaucourt 
when they’ve done with it won’t be fit for ballasting 
a garden path. But, lord, the ground between the two 
would swallow ’em all up and be greedy for more ! ” 
166 


A Bit of Bluff 167 

He knew, because he had just come in from 
reconnoitring, and although the Divisional Com- 
mander was dreadfully anxious that two Tanks should 
assail a strong point known to lie somewhere between 
the two villages, yet the T.B.C. vowed that it was 
impossible. 

“If we send them in,” he said, “they’ll only get 
bellied, and that’ll be worse than if they don’t go at 
all, because the infantry will be expecting them to help 
and they won’t be able to.” With just a touch of 
pride: “The Tanks are supposed to do anything, 
and nothing succeeds like success ! ” 

It was no use trying to go against the expert’s 
advice, and so it was decided that while four Tanks 
should lead the advance on Beaumont Hamel and 
four on Beau court, none should essay the impossible 
and tackle the strong point that lay like an island in 
the sea of filthy, stinking mud. Two Tanks, how- 
ever, were to be held in reserve, and it was these two 
which called a bluff — and got home. 

But that’s the story. 

By nine o’clock on the 13th, two hours after the 
attack had been launched, reports buzzed over the 
telephone to the Divisional Commander saying that 
the advance had gone like clockwork; Beaumont 
Hamel was captured and Beaucourt had been cleared 
of the Germans. 

“We’re held up in the centre by that strong- 
point,” the infantry Brigadier called down. “Can’t 
make any headway.” 

“Damn!” breathed the Divisional Commander 


168 Tank Tales 

down the ’phone, and then glared at the T.B.C. “I 
told you that’s what would happen,” he said fiercely. 
“We’ll have to send up those two Tanks, and ” 

“I’m afraid it’s no good, sir,” the T.B.C. assured 
him. “It’s absolutely impossible for the Tanks to 
get there, so why risk the lives of men inside ? ” 

“Well, what the devil are we to do?” demanded 
the Divisional Commander. “We simply must do 
something ! ” 

The T.B.C. rubbed his chin reflectively. 

“ I wonder ? ” he said, apparently apropos of 
nothing. 

“Out with it.” 

“I wonder if I’d be as lucky at bluffing the Boche 
as at bluffing old Teddy Sarle at poker? I did have 
some luck on a pair of twos against him ! ” 

The Divisional Commander knew the T.B.C. was 
a keen poker player, but for the life of him he could 
not see how one could play poker with a pair of 
Tanks. He waited patiently; and he got his reward. 

“Those fellows are a pair of aces anyhow,” the 
T.B.C. said with a grin. /‘Think we’ll try it. Plan 
is to bring the darn things up, let ’em go as far as 
they can, and chance getting ’em ditched — which 
they’re bound to do.” 

“Isn’t that what I wanted you to do all along?” 
demanded the General. 

“Not exactly, sir,” the T.B.C. replied. “You see, 
I know the Tanks will be ditched as sure as they weigh 
a score or more tons apiece. But when the enemy 
sees ’em coming they may make a bit of a bolt for it. 


A Bit of Bluff 169 

Tanks are not liked. But the Germans don’t know 
what Tanks can’t do.” 

“Oh, go ahead,” said the Divisional Commander. 
“Send down for the lady and gentleman while 1 
’phone up the Brigadier and tell him what’s doing.” 

And while the T.B.C. scribbled a note which an 
orderly carried off, ploughing through to his waist, 
cursing the War, ,and mud, and Tanks, the General 
rang up a Brigadier and told him he was going to get 
the Tanks through if possible., 

“T.B.C. swears it can’t be done,” he said. “But 
I’m coming along to Brigade Report Centre to see 
what happens.” 

He rang off, and then moved out of the dug-out, 
squelched through the mud which gurgled as dud 
shells tumbled into it, and splashed itself over every- 
thing as live shells churned it afresh, making for the 
Brigade Report Centre — actually a good observation 
point in a commanding position. Arrived there, he 
found the Infantry Brigadier waiting for him. 
Through the drizzling rain they could see Beaumont 
Hamel on the left and Beaucourt on the right, both 
places being deluged by German shells, while between 
the two, despite the torrent of shells that British guns 
were raining upon them, the enemy in the strong- 
point were still holding out. 

“It’s a devil of a mess!” said the Divisional 
Commander as he stood beside the Brigadier. “If 
the Tanks had only come up ” 

“They’re coming, sir, now!” said the voice of 
the Tank Battalion Commander as he joined them. 

L 


i7o Tank Tales 

“Look, the gentleman is showing the lady the 
way.” 

He laughed as he pointed across the mud to where 
the couple of Tanks were waddling towards the edge 
of the morass. The male Tank, with its 6-pounders 
sticking out wet and shiny, was a little in advance of 
the female, through whose portholes only Lewis guns 
showed. 

“Will they do it?” the Divisional Commander 
asked anxiously. 

“Not by miles,” said the T.B.C. “Lord, they’re 
simply standing still in their track now.” 

He was very nearly right. His practical eye could 
see that the Tanks were making but little headway, 
and that the caterpillars were simply rattling round 
and round without appreciable effect. The mud 
splayed from them in showers. Yet, from various 
spots, unseen men cheered as they realised that the 
Tanks were coming to their assistance, and, as though 
to reassure the mud-caked infantry, the Tanks’ guns 
opened fire, while their engines strove hard to keep 
them on the move, if only ever so slightly. Yard 
by yard they advanced, the male still leading the 
way, and every now and again they were lost 
beneath a cloaking pall of mud. 

“By heavens, they’ll do it!” exclaimed the 
Divisional Commander, but the T.B.C. knew the real 
truth — that it would not be long before the Tanks 
would give up the game, and he was wondering how 
long he would have to wait to see if his bluff brought 
luck or if the Germans would call it. 


A Bit of Bluff 171 

“There you are ! ” he said quietly at last, as the 
male Tank, when about a hundred and fifty yards 
from the first of the trenches that formed the strong- 
point, lost its belly in feet of mud, and, though the 
tracks went round, the Tank lay where it had stopped, 
ditched irretrievably. 

Still no sign from the trenches, except a rapid 
firing of machine-guns and a trench mortar or so 
that barked characteristically. Fortunately none of 
the shells fell upon the ditched Tank, though one or 
two narrowly missed the female, still striving pain- 
fully behind. 

“She’ll be swallowed up in no time now,” groaned 
the T.B.C., and he cursed himself for a fool for 
expecting to bring off a bluff. War isn’t poker after 
all ! 

The cheers that had come from the infantry had 
long since died as the men realised how uncertain 
was the hope that had been born in them. Still, all 
eyes watched the moving Tank as she slowly nosed 
her way on, swung past her consort and smothered 
him with a fresh coating of mud, kicked up a fearful 
shindy as by a miracle she escaped being ditched 
close at hand, and went on for another hundred 
yards, to the utmost amazement of the T.B.C. and 
the secret joy of the Divisional Commander, who was 
beginning to think that, after all, he was right and 
the Tank man wrong. 

Then the lady stopped. She stopped when she 
was within fifty yards of the front trench, and just 
when a few more yards would have brought her to 


172 Tank Tales 

the spot whence she could fire down into the trench. 
As it was, she ditched badly and could not bring her 
guns to bear. 

“Damn ! ’’ cried the Brigadier, 

“Well,” snapped the Tank Battalion Commander 
inconsistently. All along he had sworn that this 
would happen, and now that it had happened he was 
disappointed. “We’re done; the blankety bluff has 
failed ! ” 

“No, we’re not done!” exclaimed the Divisional 
Commander excitedly; “look at that ! ” 

It had come all in a moment. A minute before, 
the Germans in the strong-point had been peppering 
the Tanks with machine-gun bullets; and yet now, 
even when all except themselves knew that the Tanks 
were as useless for fighting as old junks in a dock- 
yard, they lost their nerve, and the British officers 
looking from their observation post saw an extra- 
ordinary sight. Swarming out of the trench came 
soaked and mud-caked Germans; from shell-holes 
here and there, from behind heaps of debris came 
scared field-greys waving old newspapers, handker- 
chiefs once white, bits of tin— anything but weapons, 
and calling “ Kamerad ! Kamerad ! ” 

The Tank Battalion Commander lost the power of 
speech for a few moments, the Divisional Commander 
was rubbing his hands delightedly; the Brigadier 
was tugging his moustache as he rapped out orders 
over the telephone that sent cheering soldiers leaping 
from behind their shelters and floundering through 
the mud to round up the four hundred odd Germans 


A Bit of Bluff 173 

who had surrendered to a couple of Tanks that could 
not have fired an effective shot at them ! 

“Bluffed ’em, by Jove!” ejaculated the T.B.C. 
when he did find his tongue. 

And the Divisional Commander never was quite 
sure whether the Germans were as much bluffed by 
the T.B.C. as the T.B.C. was by himself; he seemed 
so utterly surprised at the success of his own pair of 
aces. 


THE TROPHY 


When 2nd Lieutenant Billy Somers left England to 
go to France in June, 1917, he promised his family 
that he would get them a German helmet. 

Now, in July, 1918, he was .worried by the fact 
that the promise had not yet been redeemed. 

It is true, he had had bad luck, and a further 
difficulty was that he had set himself a high standard. 
Billy Somers had determined that his helmet should 
be a real capture; he would have nothing to do with 
a trophy purchased from a soldier after a successful 
raid. No, Billy had made up his mind that when 
he got his helmet he would also get the man it be- 
longed to, and up to now he hadn’t been favoured with 
success. 

His first three months in France had been spent 
in the trenches, but it was a quiet sector, and it was 
a dull time. Then came his transfer to. the Tank 
Corps, followed by five months’ training in England, 
while his first few months in the spring of 1918 had 
been spent mostly in retreating, with many more 
chances of losing his own headgear than of capturing 
any from the enemy. 

About the middle of July, however, Billy Somers 
was given command of one of the new Mark V Tanks 
that had just come out from England, and no Tank 
174 


175 


The Trophy 

ever had a prouder commander. Billy’s attachment 
to his Tank became a byword in his section, and the 
other officers said that he used to get up in the night 
to go and stroke it, to make sure that it was all right. 
The crew, too, caught the infection, and were full of 
enthusiasm for their new craft; they swore by the 
Tank and were devoted to their commander. Many 
a private oath was registered that when they went 
into action they would get farther into the enemy’s 
lines than ever Tank had been before. 

And the day for action came sooner than any of 
them expected, for on August 2 nd they got news that 
they were to go into a big attack, east of Amiens, in 
about a week’s time. 

The next day Billy Somers was told that his 
section would be co-operating with a certain famous 
battalion of Australian infantry. So in the afternoon 
Billy borrowed a bicycle and rode over to see the 
platoon that his Tank would lead. Billy was quick 
at making friends; the Australian subaltern com- 
manding the platoon asked him to stay to dinner, and 
before the visit ended they were prepared to go to 
Heaven together if necessary. 

On the following day the Australian officer came 
over to see the Tank, and with him came some of 
his platoon N.C.O.s. Within three days the whole 
platoon had not only seen the Tank with which 
they were going to fight, but all of them had been 
for a ride in it. 

So when the attack started on August 8th the Tank 
crew and the infantry platoon were all sworn friends, 


176 Tank Tales 

filled with a resolve that their combination would 
accomplish something startling. 

Billy hadn’t forgotten his determination to capture 
a Boche helmet, and the last thing * he did before 
starting was to fix up a little hat-peg inside the Tank, 
with a bit of wire on which to hang the helmet when 
he got it. All the crew knew of their commander’s 
ambition, and they were determined that it wouldn’t 
be their fault if his efforts were not crowned with 
success. 

An account of the great attack of August 8th has 
been written elsewhere, and it is not proposed here to 
repeat it. It is sufficient to say that the whole opera- 
tion was a complete surprise and an overwhelming 
success. The Germans appear to have thought that 
the serious reverses suffered by the British Army in 
the past few months had ruled out the possibility of 
an offensive for some time to come. Consequently, the 
lines of Tanks, appearing suddenly out of the mist, 
followed by the alert, quick-moving Australians, 
struck terror into their hearts, and before the attack 
had fairly started it became a walk-over. 

The Australian platoon stuck to Billy Somers’ 
Tank like a sheep dog to its shepherd. The Tank 
went ahead and crushed down the wire, wiped 
out machine-gun nests, and acted generally like 
the attendant battleship to a convoy of merchant- 
men. 

They had been going for about an hour, and Billy 
was still steering east, but wondering how far they 
had got, when the Tank observer saw a German 


The Trophy 177 

officer walking towards them with hands above his 
head, wanting to surrender. 

“Here’s .a Boche officer, sir,” he shouted down 
the voice pipe. “Shall we take him prisoner? ” 

“What sort of a helmet has he got? ” replied the 
Tank commander, who could not see from his seat 
beside the driver. 

“He hasn’t got one at all, sir,” answered the 
observer. “But he’s very anxious to surrender.” 

“Oh, we can’t be bothered with him,” said the 
T.C., “the infantry behind will pick him up.” 

So a hand waved through a porthole intimated to 
the German officer that he wasn’t wanted, and it 'was 
left to the Australian platoon behind to take Kim 
prisoner. This Prussian officer spent his first few 
weeks of captivity raging with shame and fury 
because he had tried to surrender to a miserable Tank, 
which had refused to have him because it had more 
important things to attend to. And now the Tank 
was beginning to get past the trench area out into 
the open country beyond. 

A slight mist still hung over everything, and the 
German gun positions were passed without any un- 
fortunate incident, except that the Tank machine-guns 
got busy with some gun teams that were trying to get 
the guns away. 

A few minutes later and the Tank had reached 
the area of supply dumps and reserve billets. 
Here they suddenly came upon a convoy of Ger- 
man wagons, moving peaceably down the road. The 
drivers were chatting and smoking as they jogged 


178 Tank Tales 

along, and they got the shock of their lives when they 
were startled by the crackle of a machine-gun, and 
looked up to see the Tank bearing down on them like 
an avenging fury. 

There was not much left of the convoy when the 
Tank had finished with it, and the same fate awaited 
a company of pioneers working on the road, who 
leapt for their rifles and tried to defend themselves 
when the Tank appeared. 

But there was better game to come. 

Picture a little cluster of huts, close to the road- 
side. Outside these, a flagstaff with the Divisional 
Headquarters’ flag flying. Inside sit working the 
divisional staff, the administrative officers busy with 
ammunition returns and blanket indents, the opera- 
tions section a little worried because of the unaccount- 
able interruption in their telephone communications 
to the front line. 

To this peaceful scene there comes a sound rather 
like a noisy lorry advancing up the road. The noise 
seems louder than a lorry, officers look up from their 
work, the noise grows louder — it is Billy Somers and 
his Tank. 

Billy is just saying to one of his 6-pounder 
gunners : 

“Have a shot at that group of huts; they look like 
something good.” 

The staff officers have just grasped that something 
unusual is happening, when there is a loud report — 
and a 6-pounder shell lands in the middle of the 

hut. 


The Trophy 179 

They rush to the door, colonels and clerks 
tumbling over each other in their eagerness to get 
away. Once out on the balcony, however, they 
realise that they have tumbled from the frying-pan 
into the fire, as there in front of them stands a grim- 
looking steel Tank, its sides bristling with machine- 
guns and the long brown muzzle of a venomous 
6-pounder poking out. 

“Hands up !” shouts Billy, with his head poking 
up through the man-hole. “ Kamerad quick or you’re 
dead.” 

Arms shoot up above their heads as the gilded 
staff realise that they are helpless, and Billy gets out 
of the Tank with his corporal to round up the 
prisoners. 

“We are supposed to leave prisoners for the in- 
fantry,” said Billy, as he surveyed the group, “but 
this is a special occasion.” 

“Great Scott, I believe it’s Hindenburg himself,” 
he continued, as he caught sight of a ponderous figure 
at the end of the line. “Does anyone speak English ? 
Who are you ?” 

“It is General of Division von Schaffenburg, 
and the Headquarters Staff,” replied the officer 
whom Billy had thought to be Hindenburg. 
“We surrender to superior force, and I trust that 
we shall be treated with the respect due to pur 
rank.” 

“Oh, that’s all right, old bean,” responded the 
subaltern airily. “Look here, corporal, get one of 
the men out of the Tank to take this party down the 


180 Tank Tales 

road. Our friends the Australians are only just 
behind and they’ll look after them.” 

The prisoners marched off down the road, followed 
by a grinning member of the Tank crew carrying a 
couple of revolvers ready in case of accidents. Billy 
climbed in at the window of the hut to have a 
look round, and was collecting some of the more 
important-looking papers when he was interrupted 
by a shout from the corporal, who was in the corridor 
outside. 

“What do you think of this, sir? ” he cried, and 
as Billy came into the passage the corporal stepped 
back and pointed dramatically. 

There on the wall of the corridor was a line of 
pegs, and on each peg there hung a helmet. There 
were enough helmets for each member of the Tank 
crew to have one, and still be some to spare. And at 
the end of the row there was a helmet a little apart 
from the rest — and such a helmet ! It was covered 
with gold leaves and gilded eagles, and surmounted 
with a gorgeous red and white tassel — the kind 
of hat which a German general of division wears 
when he is going to a very special sort of in- 
spection. 

Billy’s eyes glistened as he saw it. 

“This is good enough for me,” he said softly. 
“Golly, this’ll wake them up at home.” 

And that’s how it comes about that in a big house, 
near a little village in Devonshire, there hangs in the 
drawing-room, in the place of honour over the mantel- 


The Trophy 181 

piece, a helmet which once belonged to a real German 
general. 

The helmet used to be bright when the general’s 
servant cleaned it, because the general had rather a 
fiery temper; but it is brighter now — Mrs. Somers 
always cleans it herself. 


AFTER THE DAY'S WORK 


“Well, good-day, old chap. You’ve done pretty 
well, and I reckon we’ll be jolly , comfortable here. 
Fritz provides decent quarters for us^ though we can't 
stay in ’em long enough ! ” 

Major Granger, of the Westshires, grinned as he 
shook hands with Morris, -commander of a section of 
four Tanks that had crawled three miles or more into 
the German lines and enabled the infantry to reach 
their objective for that day anyhow. Infantrymen 
were busy either cleaning up the show or taking a 
rest, or unrolling blood-stained bandages to have a 
look at wounds of which they had thought little while 
the fight was in progress. The Tank men, grimy, 
sweating, were putting the finishing touches to their 
machines, that had various signs of pretty bad 
mauling, although only one of them was out of 
action. The track of this one had turned itself into 
an interrogation mark, but it had happened at the 
end of the fight, and all the others were ready for 
the return trip — when things were quiet enough. 

Morris was glad for his men’s sake that Granger 
had decided that he would not want the Tanks any 
more that day, and he walked out of the improvised 
headquarters and over the littered field of battle to 
carry the news to his men, where they lay with their 
182 


After the Day’s Work 183 

Tanks behind some trees a few hundred yards in the 
rear of the advanced position. 

“Everything ready?” he queried of his Tank 
commanders. “We’re going back.” 

It needed but a glance to show him that the Tanks 
were ready, and at a word the men scrambled through 
the doors, the engines began to purr, and the huge 
machines thrust their noses in and out among the 
trees, and so out into the open, going home. They 
had gone but a mile, however, when a runner came 
dashing up, breathless and shaking at the knees. He 
stopped at Morris’s Tank, saluted, and handed a note 
to Morris, who thrust his head through the door. The 
note, being opened, provided Morris with a little 
problem. 

“From O.C. B Coy., Westshires. 

“ToO.C. Tanks. 

“We are held up by M.-G. fire from trench 
ait about X.21 a.52. aaa. Can you send a 
Tank. aaa. Urgent. 

“(Signed) B. Wootton, Capt. 

“X.21 b.44.” 

V 

All three Tanks had come to a standstill, and the 
commanders were peeping through the doors, watch- 
ing their chief and wondering what w r as afoot. There 
is a limit to everything, and they regarded it as a 
piece of rotten luck if it should turn out they were to 
go back when they had been expecting a little respite. 
Still, if the job was there to be done, the Tanks were 


184 Tank Tales 

there to do it, and each of the commanders was 
totting up in his mind the amount of petrol and 
ammunition left, and trying, to figure out how far it 
would go if there were anything in the way of a 
decent scrap. 

“I say, Smithers,” Morris called out, looking up 
from his note. “You’ll take charge of these two 
Tanks and get ’em back. I’m going up to support 
the Westshires : they’re in a bit of a fix, I reckon.” 

“Very well, sir,” said Lieutenant Smithers, and 
the two Tanks moved off towards home while Morris’s 
swung round on its belly and crunched its way back 
along the route it had come until the runner, whom 
Morris had taken aboard, indicated the branch-off. 
Morris consulted his map, and found that he had 
about half a mile to go before he came to X.21 a. 52. 

With the cheerful gloominess of the soldier who 
doesn’t in the least mind doing .what he grumbles 
about, the Tank men curs6d X.21, etc., the while 
they put everything shipshape. 

“Blarst it all,” said Hunter, who had been a 
taxi-driver before the war and sometimes sighed for 
the type of car that registered miles by shillings, “ I 

thought we were done for to-day, and ” 

“ We’ll give Fritz a hell of a time for putting this 
on us,” another private gave back to him. “ Overtime ! 
Overtime, without pay and a half ! ”, 

“We’re there, men ! ” Morris shouted down from 
the manhole out of which he had been thrusting, his 
head and reconnoitring. It was very evident that the 
Westshires were having a bad time, for Morris could 


After the Day’s Work 185 

hear the chatter of innumerable machine-guns coming 
from a little way in front. His hope was that he 
might be able to get within fighting range without 
being spotted by the Germans, and, as his map 
showed him that there was a sunken road just near 
X.21, he had little doubt that he might be able to do 
so. He called in the aid of the runner, who proved 
himself a capable guide and piloted the Tank into 
the mouth of the sunken road. 

“Captain Wootton’s position is on the left, sir,” 
the runner told Morris, who made his driver get the 
Tank among a clump of shorn-off trees. Then he 
went with the runner to Wootton’s scanty shelter, 
was welcomed joyously, and fell to discussing the 
situation. 

“You’re just in time, Morris,” Captain Wootton 
told him. “We’ve been cut up very badly, but we 
simply must get through. Besides, some of my 
fellows have been making a reconnaissance and 
report that the enemy is collecting large numbers of 
troops, and it looks as though he’s intending to 
counter-attack. The trench that’s bunkering us will 
make it possible for him to do< so fairly easily — fact, 
I wonder he hasn’t done it before.” 

“Where’s the trench?” was all that Morris said, 
and Wootton gave him the necessary information. 

“Seems there’s no time to be lost,” the Tank 
Commander suggested. “Can you follow up if we 
go and smash the darned thing for you?” 

“Can we?” Wootton asked. “You’ll want a 
fellow to guide you, eh ? ” 

M 


186 Tank Tales 

Morris accepted the suggestion and went back to 
his Tank, told the men what was to be done, the 
engines started again, and the landship crawled 
down the sunken road, which served as excellent 
cover. Presently the sunken road had to be left and 
they were in the open — which was the signal for the 
German trenches to open a heavy fire. Some field 
guns that were amongst the trees, waiting to support 
the threatening counter-attack, drowned the chatter 
of machine-guns and spattered high explosives about 
the Tank, which took no notice, but merely lumbered 
on, straight for its objective. Straight, that is, until 
the shooting of the German guns become too accurate 
for comfort. Then the Tank began to tack, and so 
threw out the gunners. 

“Pass me that shovel,” Morris bawled at the top 
of his voice to a man who was arranging shells for 
the guns. The man obeyed, without a word, but 
wondering why the captain should want a shovel : 
there was no suggestion that the Tank had bellied 
herself and needed digging out. Morris took it, 
however, and, after a last glance through the port — 
a glance that showed him the Tank was at the end 
of the offending trench— he shouted out orders 
for the guns to open, and sprang up to the manhole 
at the top, shoved up the flap, thrust the shovel 
through and waved it madly for a moment or so. It 
was the signal that he had agreed to make so that 
Wootton should know when the Tank had reached 
the trench, and that the Germans were cutting for 
their dug-outs. 


After the Day’s Work 187 

Down the length of the trench the Tank’s guns 
fired as rapidly as they could be loaded : the Hotch- 
kisses sprayed snicking bullets among the gathering 
Germans, Those of the enemy who were in the 
open made a dash for the Tank, but its guns pulled 
them up sharply and scattered them. Then, swinging 
round again and pointing down the trench, the pieces 
blazed away and made things so hot that the Germans 
there bolted like hares for their dug-outs. 

The enfilading fire of the Tank kept them hidden, 
and meanwhile Wootton’s men, who had moved 
quickly after the Tank up the sunken road, to take 
shelter wherever they could until the right moment 
came for them to rush, saw the heavy shovel come 
waving up from the top of the Tank — a shovel that 
Wootton knew was being waved by Morris 

“Reckon that’s done it, men!” Morris said as 
he dropped back to the floor of the Tank. “Pound 
’em if they show themselves. The Westshires are 
coming ! ” 

And the Westshires came — with a bellowing roar 
and a mad wild rush. They surged up to the Tank, 
opened out and passed by it, dropped into the trench, 
flinging bombs as an intimation of their coming. 
Dug-outs caved in or yawned open ; in others, after 
the first shattering roar, there was silence; from 
others there came men with upraised hands, while 
from yet others, well down towards the farther end, 
Germans rushed up and clambered up the parados, 
and bolted across the open — with a shower of 
machine-gun bullets chasing them. 


i88 


Tank Tales 


Right down the trench went the Westshires — 
with the Tank standing, a grim spectacle of hideous- 
ness, like an inert sentinel above them, ready either 
to smash an attempted offensive, or, at a signal, to do 
anything that-Wootton wanted it to do. 

There was little for it to do, however : its very 
presence awed the Germans, who did not dare attack 
that threatening monster. The Westshires cleaned 
up the trench, manned it, and so robbed the Germans 
of their excellent jumping-off place, at the same 
time that they knew they had reached that day’s 
objective. 

Wootton strolled up the dead-littered trench when 
the fight was over and met Morris as the latter 
emerged from the Tank. 

“Thanks, Morris,” Wootton said simply, holding 
out his hand, “you fellows did that well. Sorry to 
have yanked you back and ” 

“Don’t apologise,” said Morris, with a grin. 
“You haven’t got a spare shovel amongst your 
crowd, have you ? ” 

“Dare say — why?” Wootton said. “Why, 
man” — he stared at the bandage that Morris had 
round his right hand — “how did you get that ? ” 

“Oh, didn’t you see the first shovel I pushed 
up?” Morris asked. “The wretched thing got up 
just at the moment Fritz pitched over a H.E., and 
the shovel got it. Splintered the handle right down, 
you know. Drew a little blood. If you can let us 

have that spare shovel I’ll be glad : you never know 

we might need it if we get stuck on the way back. 


After the Day’s Work 189 

If we do, the men will be fed to the teeth. They 
reckon they’ve put in their overtime ! ” 

But there was no need for digging out. Morris 
got his Tank back all right, the only casualties being 
his own hand and the lurid misapplication of King’s 
English by the Tank men at having been robbed of 
an hour or so of rest. 


SALVAGE 


To anybody who thinks about salvage work in the 
field there generally arises a picture of, some oldish 
men, unfit for more active service, pottering about 
behind the lines picking up any odd bits of equipment 
and ammunition that they may find lying about. 
Certainly one thinks of salvage as useful work, very 
necessary in these days when the supply of muni- 
tions plays such an important part in war, but essen- 
tially work in which there is no very great element 
of danger, and something that can be done by old or 
unfit soldiers who are useful for nothing else. But 
that wasn’t Major Brunton’s idea of it at all. 

Brunton was put in command of the first Tank 
salvage company that was formed, and his view of 
the matter was that the salvage company’s charter 
included doing everything for the Tank Corps, from 
collecting damaged spuds to unditching a Tank in 
the middle of a battle and taking it on again to join 
in the fight. Consequently, life in the Tank salvage 
company was by no means free from danger, and it 
was not at all to be recommended for men who were 
fit only for light duty. 

On one occasion Brunton was dodging about ex- 
amining broken-down Tanks near the front line, when 
he heard that a Tank had been hit in front of our 
190 


Salvage 191 

trenches, and that its commander was still lying 
badly wounded in a shell-hole out in No Man’s Land. 
Brunton, therefore, crawled out a hundred yards and 
bound up the officer’s wounds, staying with him in 
the shell-hole till nightfall. The Tank commander 
was obviously dying and it was useless to try to 
move him, but Brunton crawled out twice to him 
during the night, taking food and brandy to relieve 
his dying sufferings. That was the sort of thing 
Brunton included as salvage work. 

Six foot four in height, with fair hair above his 
freckled face, the commander of the Tank salvage 
company was famous for his enormous strength ; in 
spite of this his voice and manner were so gentle that 
one might have thought him the most harmless of 
persons. Yet there was once a scene in a caffi, 
when Brunton dealt simultaneously with four rowdy 
officers — but that is another story. 

Whenever a battle started, Brunton appeared with 
his salvage men, following up the fight, unditching 
machines that were stuck, and assisting generally to 
keep the maximum number of Tanks in action. Then, 
when the first phase of the battle was over, the salvage 
company set to work to patch up the Tanks that had 
been hit and bring them back to railhead. Frequently 
the damaged Tanks were close up behind our front 
line, generally they were exposed to the most severe 
shell-fire, and most of the work had to be done at 
night, while on at least two occasions Tanks were 
actually brought in from No Man’s Land. 

Brunton never seemed to tire. Always cheerful 


192 Tank Tales 

under difficulties, he generally preferred to live on the 
spot, and his idea of comfort seemed to be well satis- 
fied with a couple of sheets of corrugated iron stuck 
up in the mud of the battlefield. 

There are a lot of stories about Brunton, but one 
of the best is how he purloined a platoon of Australian 
infantry and kept them working for him for nearly 
six months. It happened like this. 

After the battle of Arras, in the spring of 1917, 
the Tank Salvage Company was working in the 
Arras area, clearing up the damaged Tanks and 
bringing them back to railhead. The work was hard 
and there was a very large amount to be done, while 
the salvage company was small and its numbers 
strictly limited. So Brunton made friends with an 
Australian battalion commander, and persuaded him 
to lend the salvage company a platoon of infantry, 
some forty strong, to help in the work. Three days 
later Brunton asked if the Australian infantry could 
come and live with his own men to save the daily 
trip backwards and forwards to their work. 

The battalion had nothing very much to do at the 
moment, so the Australian colonel consented. A fort- 
night later the colonel suggested that the platoon 
should be changed over and another sent in its place. 
By this time, however, Brunton had become rather 
attached to his Australians, and he asked that they 
should stay a little longer, as the job was nearly 
finished. Another fortnight elapsed, and then the 
colonel again asked for his platoon to be returned. 
In reply Brunton asked him to dinner. 


Salvage 193 

Over a bottle of port after dinner Brunton had no 
very difficult task to get permission for the Austra- 
lians to stay for another four days, and the colonel 
departed late in the evening on the best of terms 
with Brunton and the other officers of the salvage com- 
pany. Two days later the Australian colonel found 
to his dismay that the salvage company had cleared 
out, lock, stock and barrel, taking his platoon with 
them, and nobody knew where they had gone. 

Then the correspondence began. First from the 
Australian battalion through the brigade to the divi- 
sion, requesting for orders to be issued for the platoon 
to be returned; then back again from the division 
asking for further particulars of how the men became 
attached to the salvage company. That matter 
cleared up, the correspondence was sent on by the 
division to the Headquarters of the corps under 
whose orders the Australian division happened to be 
at the time. The corps replied that they could take 
no action, as the Tank' Salvage Company had moved 
not only out of the corps area, but also out of the 
Army area; the matter must, therefore, be taken up 
by the division with their own Australian Head- 
quarters, who could correspond direct with G.H.Q. 
Just at this time the division moved, and the corre- 
spondence lapsed for a week or two until they settled 
down again. Arrived in their new quarters, however, 
it began again with renewed vigour; Australian 
Headquarters were furious about the case, and wrote 
a strong minute to G.H.Q. insisting on the return 
of the men immediately. 


194 Tank Tales 

Unfortunately, owing to an oversight, the word 
“Tank” was left out, and the erring unit was de- 
scribed as No. i Salvage Company. So G.H.Q. 
got busy and telegraphed to the Nth Division, 
describing the circumstances and giving instruc- 
tions that No. i Salvage Company were to be 
ordered to return the men forthwith. The officer 
commanding the salvage company replied that he 
had not got the men and had never had them ; so 
back went the correspondence through G.H.Q. and 
Australian Headquarters to the battalion for an 
explanation. 

The mistake was, of course, discovered, and the 
correspondence promptly started off again with the 
information that it was No. i Tank Salvage Company 
that had purloined the men. 

There was some further delay, owing to the fact 
that by this time the Tank Salvage Company had 
been split up and reformed into three companies, 
which were called Tank field companies; but when 
the correspondence got To Tank Corps Headquarters 
it was inevitable that Brunton must be discovered 
before very long. 

In the meanwhile Brunton’s company, with its 
Australian section, had been having a strenuous four 
months up in the Ypres district. The Australians 
liked their work, were devoted to their commander, and 
had no intention of returning to their battalion until 
compelled to go. Brunton, for his part, had become 
very much attached to his Australians, who were 
a welcome accession of strength to his company, and 


i95 


Salvage 

the platoon contained some rough and ready fighters, 
who were just the right type for the work they had 
to do. 

It was an Australian corporal who invented the 
makeshift radiator, a wonderful contrivance; made of 
petrol tins, by means of which they got several Tanks 
away after the real article had been smashed by shell- 
fire. 

Men in the company used to say that Brunton 
and the corporal between them could shift any Tank, 
however badly smashed it might be. In fact, popular 
report had it that if all else failed Brunton used to 
carry the Tank back to railhead ! Certainly it was 
difficult to explain how some of the shell-torn, broken 
Tanks had been moved and put up on to railway 
trucks in spite of gaping holes and what would have 
appeared to be vital parts smashed by shells that had 
burst inside. 

Broken-down Tanks are a favourite mark for 
enemy guns, and it was an education to watch Brun- 
ton on the war-path stalking his quarry, some help- 
less-looking, twisted mass of steel that looked as if 
no power on earth could move it. Dodging the .shells 
and crawling where necessary, Brunton would exercise 
extraordinary patience in reaching his Tank. Once 
there he would take a hasty glance inside, noting 
the damage; then back again he would come at night 
with his trusty Australian corporal carrying a tin can 
or two and a few bits of wire. And, lo and behold, 
the Tank would be back at railhead next morning. 

But the day drew near when Brunton and his 


196 Tank Tales 

Australians had to part. A staff officer named 
Dunbar, from Tank Corps Headquarters, visited him 
one afternoon, and as Brunton was living at the time 
in comparatively civilised surroundings Dunbar 
stayed to dinner. 

“Now then, Brunton,” said Dunbar, after a glass 
or two of Burgundy, “what’s all this about your 
stealing a platoon of Australians?” 

“Oh, no,” replied Brunton; “I didn’t steal them. 
They were lent to me.” 

“All right, you old villain,” said Dunbar, with a 
smile; “have it your own way. But there’s the devil 
of a correspondence about it. It’s only just got to 
us; but as far as I can see you’ll be hung, drawn, and 
quartered unless that platoon gets back to its bat- 
talion pretty soon.” 

“Well, I shall be sorry to lose them; but I hope 
nobody thinks there was anything irregular about 
it.” 

The staff officer burst into a laugh. 

“Nothing irregular! Why, you’ve had them 
nearly six months.” 

Then he added : “What beats me, though, is how 
you managed to pay them all this time, as they get 
colonial rates of pay, which are about three times as 
much as our men get.” 

“Oh, they were always paid on an imprest 
account. I was very careful about that,” said Brunton 
gravely. 

“Yes,” replied Dunbar, “but didn’t the paymaster 
ever raise any objections when he got your accounts ?” 


Salvage 197 

“Well, I did think of that difficulty,” replied the 
other, perfectly solemnly, “so I always paid them 
on somebody else’s imprest. You see, we move about 
a good deal, so I used to go to the nearest unit and 
get them paid. Then by the time inquiries came back 
about the colonial rales we’d moved away, and some- 
how the correspondence' never reached us.” 

“That’s priceless,” said Dunbar laughing. “You 
must have found these Australians jolly useful to take 
all that trouble to keep them ? ” 

“Yes, they certainly took to the salvage work very 
readily,” replied the company commander, “and 
they seemed to like it. Did you notice our workshop 
as you came past? ” 

“ Do you mean those two workshop lorries and the 
forge and other odds and ends ? ” 

“That’s right,” replied Brunton; “my Australians 
found all that stuff.” 

“Salvage, you know,” he added quickly, as the 
other began to smile. 

“ And what about the pony that Rewse was riding 
this afternoon?” continued Dunbar; “I know you 
haven’t got any horses on your establishment. Was 
that salvage too ? ” 

“Oh, no,” replied Brunton in a shocked tone, 
“that wasn’t salvage; that was simply an exchange. 
You see, Rewse has been acting as my second-in- 
command, and he needed a horse, so we swapped a 
motor bicycle for it with a divisional ammunition 
column.” 

“And where did the motor bike come from?” 


198 Tank Tales 

“Well, as a matter of fact, you know, the Austra- 
lians found it,” said Brunton casually. “Oh, it was 
quite all right; they really did find it,” he added 
hastily as Dunbar burst out laughing. 

“The sooner you and your Australians part com- 
pany the better,” said the staff officer as he rose to 
go. “ I must be off, or your Australians will be find- 
ing my car. But I’ll get the general to put in a 
word for you with the Australian corps commander. 
I dare say the story will amuse him, and you’re too 
good at salvage work to lose.” 

So Brunton lost his Australians; but he didn’t 
mind so much as he already had his eye on some 
Canadians to take their place, and what is more he 
got them. 


TANK i;. TANK 


The Tank idea had a hard fight to obtain recogni- 
tion in England ; and even when it did obtain it, the 
official enthusiasm was not exactly white hot. In 
Germany, in spite of its impressive debut in the 
Somme battles, the Tank was not received with 
acclamation as a mighty weapon destined to bring 
the War to a speedier close. Perhaps it was because 
in those experimental utilisations of the Tank the 
British Army did not employ enough of them, and, 
not at all convinced of the formidable nature of the 
weapon it had accepted, did not give the Tanks their 
great opportunity; but, whatever was the reason, the 
Germans were slow to conceive the idea of a Tank 
that should rival those possessed by the British. 
Because, therefore, Germany had not sufficient of 
these machines, and because, even when she did 
launch them, they were not a patch on the British, 
there were no battles of the kind that H. G. Wells 
predicted many years ago in one of his flights of 
prophetic imagination. There were, it is true, a few 
instances of single combat with Tanks as the 
duellists, and the fact that such a thing did happen 
is sufficient to suggest that Wells is not far, out in 
predicting war in which armoured cars shall be the 
chief weapons — mobile fortresses which will give a 
199 


200 Tank Tales 

different complexion to war in the future, if there 
are any more wars. 

Amongst the instances of Tanks engaging in 
single combat, there stands out one which occurred 
during the big German attack near Villers Breton- 
neux, east of Amiens, on April 24th, 1918. In its 
initial stages that attack, carried out by large 
numbers of Germans, supported by a few of 
their Tanks, was successful, and the British 
line, although not broken, had to fall back to 
the support system. 

Even there all was not well, especially in the 
sector of which the village of Cachy was the centre. 
There the support line was weak, and the situation, 
already critical, was rendered more so when the Ger- 
mans, hurrying to reap the full advantage of their 
early success, threw over another wave of infantry 
to storm Cachy. Although there was some light 
ground behind Cachy the position was not one that 
could be easily held, and when the new German wave 
appeared, with two Tanks in advance, it was evident 
that things were going to be lively. 

Offensive measures were taken, not only to smash 
the German second attack, but also to try to regain 
the lost ground. An infantry battalion, therefore, 
brought up under cover of the rising ground, and 
with two Tanks — a male and female — to assist, was 
given the word to move forward. 

The British Tanks lumbered up the rising ground 
and the infantry plodded along behind them, with 
German shells pumping all about them as the enemy 


201 


Tank v. Tank 

guns did 1 their best to prevent any such thing as this 
happening. Tanks and men went on, and at fast 
the former, the female in 'the van, topped the rise, 
and their crews saw the enemy hurrying over the 
shell-pitted ground through the barrage that the 
British guns in their turn were putting down in 
the hope of smashing the German attack and 
also of preparing the way for the British .counter- 
attack. 

“ Great ! ” exclaimed Captain Horrocks, of the 
male Tank, as he saw the Germans, “this is the 
game ! ” 

He meant, as he would have told anyone who 
could have heard him, that this was what he had 
been longing for — a chance to meet an enemy Tank 
in battle, and to show what his own could do. 
Naturally, no Tank officer was left in ignorance of 
the results of examination of German Tanks, and 
Captain Horrocks knew enough of them to be aware 
of their inferiority to the British type. He knew that 
the gun-shield in front and all its fourteen loopholes 
that made the Tanks like pepper-boxes were vulner- 
able against the splash of ordinary bullets, and that 
the crew were thus badly protected. Still less were 
they protected to a direct hit from a 6-pounder, 
while a high explosive dropped so that it burst under- 
neath would play the deuce with the German machine, 
since it was not armoured below, the floor being of 
soft steel a quarter of an inch thick. 

Captain Horrocks, gloating over the opportunity 
that had come to him, called on his driver to push 


202 Tank Tales 

ahead of the female Tank, which had reached the 
crest in advance, and, being without 6-pounders, 
was naturally an unequal match for the Germans, 
both of which carried a 57 cm., besides an 
equipment of half-a-dozen heavy machine-guns 
apiece. 

Even as Horrocks’ Tank smashed forward, the 
two German Tanks — one was in the van of the ad- 
vancing infantry and the other behind — opened fire ; 
and the female, a splendid mark on the skyline, found 
herself threatened by H.E.’s with armour-piercing 
noses. 

Drayton, commanding the female, could only set 
his machine-guns firing, trusting to luck that the 
vulnerability of the Germans would stand him in 
good stead. 

“God — she’ll be smashed!’’ cried Horrocks, as 
he saw what was happening. “Pound ’em ! ” 

The gunners of the 6-pounders let fly at the Ger- 
mans, while the driver sent the Tank crashing on in 
the endeavour to get in front of the female and pro- 
tect her from the increasing fire of the enemy. The 
Germans were evidently intent on knocking her out 
without troubling for the time being with the male. 
Their 5.7’s, firing as rapidly as they could, 
were making excellent practice, despite the endea- 
vours of Drayton to prevent direct hits by tacking 
from point to point. His Tank was caught, fairly 
and squarely, and several shells pierced her, killed 
one or two of the crew, smashed the engines beyond 
hope, and brought her to a standstill before Horrocks" 


203 


Tank v. Tank 

gunners had succeeded in doing more than throw 
over ranging shots, which were, however, sufficiently 
close to make the Germans immediately turn their 
5-7’s on to the new foe, while their machine- 
guns fired at the survivors of the female, who had 
crawled out of the suffocating steel box. 

Horrocks gritted! his teeth as he saw young 
Drayton issue forth with reddened face, and a tunic 
that was reddening. 

“Lay to and take it ! ” he told his driver; and the 
Tank came to a standstill. Both her 6-pounders 
were brought to bear now upon the leading German 
Tank, and shell after shell spouted up around it, 
until presently three shells crashed 1 full upon the 
Tank. 

After the first hit the Tank held on a little; at 
the second, which lifted off the top of the cab, and 
probably killed the driver, it swung round as though 
to retreat. Then, as apparently the observation 
officer, whose seat was beside the driver, took con- 
trol, the Tank was swerved into line again and held 
on. 

“Plucky, by Jove!” said Horrocks. 

But all the pluck in the world could not help the 
Germans, for the third successful shot brought their 
Tank up with a suddenness that must have jolted 
every man off his feet. 

Even so, the gunner stuck to his post, for, while 
the surviving members of the crew bolted like rabbits 
from the Tank, he remained and pitched over three 
or four shells before he, too, made a dash for safety, 


204 Tank Tales 

leaving the derelict Tank to be captured, as, indeed, 
it was before that day’s fighting was done. 

Meanwhile, the second German Tank was coming 
up from the rear of the advancing infantry, who, 
having cheered when they saw the British Tank put 
out of action, must have felt pretty sore at the fate 
of their own ; while the British Tommies, who had 
been not a little glum when they over-topped 1 the rise 
and saw Drayton’s smashed machine, now gave vent 
to a ringing cheer as they rushed down the slope, 
heedless of the shells flung over by the German 
Tank. 

Horrocks kept his machine moving forward, a 
little in advance of the infantry, and, holding his fire 
until he was within a thousand yards of the Germans, 
who now had their Tank in front, he opened out his 
machine-guns on the infantry and let hell loose on 
the Tank with his 6-pounders. 

It was a duel in all respects similar to that which 
had just finished; the two Tanks were each tacking 
in all directions, as ships tack in battle; though, as 
far as Horrocks was concerned, he was not so much 
worried about getting into a position that would en- 
able him to smash the German as he was to prevent 
the German from smashing him, because the enemy 
had more than enough vulnerable spots in his steel 
hide. 

Fascinated, the* infantry, to whom this single 
combat between Tanks was a new thing, watched the 
fight with curious eyes, and each man of them knew 
that the success or failure of their side probably de- 


205 


Tank v. Tank 

pended on the issue. So far, honours were even, 
except that the disabled British Tank had been easy 
prey, in view of her lack of heavy armament. 

The two rivals pounded at one another, and the 
constant tacking served to lengthen the fight, for as 
fast as a shell dropping within a few feet suggested 
a direct hit next time, the Tank had gone off on 
another tack, and the next shell, fired almost in- 
stantly, dropped harmlessly. 

Then the dramatic event of the battle around 
Cachy happened. Both 6-pounders of the British 
Tank found their mark simultaneously; the Ger- 
man shivered, and the rattle of her engines could be 
heard over half a mile away. 

“ Got him ! ” cried Horrocks, and the infantry 
cheered lustily. But they cheered too soon — for the 
German was not yet done, and came on again. It 
needed another hit — which was obtained a few 
moments later — to settle the Germans. What 
damage those three shells had done Horrocks never 
knew; he had hoped to be able to count two as his 
bag for that day, but he had to be content with one, 
because the second Tank, instead of coming to a 
halt, instead of disgorging its crew as the other had 
done, simply turned tail — and bolted ! 

The British infantry chuckled to themselves as 
they followed their triumphant Tank when it went 
lumbering after the fugitive, which seemed to have 
as little regard for German troops as it would have 
had for British. The Germans were thrown into 
confusion by this unexpected denouement, and 


206 


Tank Tales 


Hoi-rocks’ machine-guns took heavy toll of them ; 
while the infantry, swarming down the slope, were 
soon among them and driving them back, disheart- 
ened by the defeat of the monsters of which they had 
expected so much, and which, so their High Com- 
mand had told them, would do all and more than 
the British Tanks had been able to do. 


THE GREAT DITCH 


On September 15, 1918, a Council of War was held 
at the Great General Headquarters of the German 
Army. 

The situation was critical; the Army which ap- 
peared to be advancing victoriously in July was now 
being driven back step by step, large portions of the 
Hindenburg Line had been lost, casualties had been 
extremely heavy, and it grew more doubtful every 
day whether the German Army could secure its retreat 
across the French frontier. 

To begin the Conference, Field Marshal von 
Ludendorff gave a short summary of the situation of 
the whole Army, dealing briefly with the question of 
the supply of ammunition, the number of divisions 
still available in reserve, transport difficulties, and 
kindred subjects. Then, turning to General von 
Boehn, he asked him to state as clearly as possible 
the reasons why he had been forced to beat a hurried 
retreat just at the moment when his victorious troops 
were approaching Paris. 

“Well, sir,” replied the General, “if you ask me 
to give the reason, in one word I will reply : Tanks.” 

“On July 15,” he continued, “I attacked east of 
Rheims. The attack was a failure, but it was not 
irretrievable. Some Divisions suffered severely, but 
207 


208 Tank Tales 

the situation was not hopeless, as there were sufficient 
reserves to replace the casualties. On July 18, how- 
ever, I was strongly attacked on the west side of the 
salient round Soissons. The attack came as a sur- 
prise, but even so it would have been defeated had 
not the enemy employed several hundreds of the 
small French Tanks. All reports of the battle say 
that the Tanks appeared to be everywhere ; the ground 
was suitable for their employment, and, on account 
of their small size and quickness of movement, my 
gunners were unable to hit them. My present 
positions are strong, but the back-bone of the defence 
is the organisation of the machine-guns, and these 
will be rendered useless if the enemy has still got 
large numbers of Tanks available for the attack.” 

“Your statement is, at any rate, clear, though ex- 
tremely unpleasant,” remarked Ludendorff. “General 
von der Marwitz, will you kindly give your account ? ” 

“The experiences of my Armies,” replied General 
von der Marwitz, “have been similar to those of 
General von Boehn. 

“At the beginning of August my foremost troops 
were less than eight miles from Amiens, and that 
town was under a constant bombardment. I was 
preparing for a further attack when, on August 5, 
reports were received that the enemy was showing 
signs of preparing an offensive. This was to a certain 
extent confirmed by the statements of prisoners, but 
it seemed incredible that the British, who had suffered 
so severely during the previous few months, could 
possibly return again to an attack on the grand scale. 


The Great Ditch 209 

“The incredible happened, however, and on 
August 8 I was attacked east of Amiens by at least 
twelve Divisions, largely composed of Australian and 
Canadian troops, whose moral appeared to have 
suffered not at all from the events of the past weeks. 
In my case also, the success of the attack must be 
largely attributed to the fact that the enemy had at 
their disposal hundreds of British Tanks, which 
rendered my machine-gunners helpless. The enemy 
were aided by a misty morning, with the result that 
the gunners could see nothing to shoot at, and some 
of the Tanks actually penetrated a distance of more 
than six miles into my lines within five hours of 
the launching of the assault.” 

“And you, General von Hutier?” said Luden- 
dorff . 

“My story is brief, Your Excellency,” replied von 
Hutier. “I was forced to retire after August 8, in 
order to conform to the movements taking place on 
my left. I took up my position in the very strong 
Hindenburg Line, but between August 21 and 28 I 
was driven out, chiefly owing to the assistance ren- 
dered by the Tanks, which broke through my defences 
and crushed down the barbed-wire entanglements 
that had taken months to construct.” 

“Very well, gentlemen,” said the Field Marshal. 
“It is imperative that we should delay our retreat for 
at least a month, and it appears that the chief power 
of the enemy that we have to fear is in their Tanks. 
The moral of their infantry is undoubtedly 'high 
as a result of their recent successes, but if we can 


210 


Tank Tales 


stop the Tanks the battle will be already half won. 
We must therefore take up positions so chosen that 
there is a complete obstacle to the movement of these 
machines. 

“You, General von Boehn and General von der 
Marwitz, have rivers on your front, behind which 
you can form new defensive lines. 

“In your case, however, General von Hutier, it 
is more difficult, as there is no river available in front 
of Cambrai, while, on the other hand, it is vital that 
this town should be defended to the last. You must 
rely, therefore, on the Canal du Nord for your de- 
fence. It is true that there is no water in the canal, 
but the sides are so steep that a man has the greatest 
difficulty in scrambling up, and as the Tanks cannot 
fly, they will be unable to cross.” 

The Conference was over; the Generals saluted 
and went back to their various headquarters, where 
followed a period of great activity until the disposi- 
tions were made and the new lines of defence taken 
up. 

****** 

The Canadians are Tank enthusiasts, so it was 
only natural that when they were given Cambrai as 
the objective for their next attack, the first question 
that the Canadian General asked was: “How many 
Tanks can we have ? ” The next few days were 
full of hurried preparations for the attack, and 
many conferences took place, at which Canadian 
Generals discussed with the Tank Brigade and 


The Great Ditch 211 

Battalion Commanders all the plans for their co- 
operation . 

The great obstacle for the Tanks was obviously 
the Canal du Nord, behind which the enemy appeared 
to have their main line of resistance. 

Left in an unfinished state at the beginning of 
the war, the canal was really an enormous cutting. 
This cutting was in most parts forty feet deep and 
eighty to ninety feet across at the top, but dry at 
the bottom, while the great difficulty for the Tanks 
was the steepness of the sloping banks. There was 
no great difficulty about sliding down, but the anxious 
question was whether the Tanks, once at the bottom, 
would be able to climb the steep slope on the far 
side. 

The whole success or failure of the attack really 
hinged on the answer to this question, and many an 
anxious hour was spent by officers in the Tank Corps 
debating this point before the battle. Old plans of 
the Canal du Nord were hastily fetched from Paris, 
workmen who had been employed on the canal before 
the War were interrogated, refugees from that part 
of the country were closely questioned, and no stone 
was left unturned to ensure that the most complete 
information should be available as to the best places 
to cross. A steep bank was found in the neighbour- 
hood of the Tankodrome, and drivers were practised 
in taking their Tanks up steep slopes. 

On the day before the attack the general opinion 
was that it would be a near thing, with odds slightly 
on the Tank. A young Tank commander expressed 


212 Tank Tales 

the general feeling with the remark: “We’ve never 
let the Canuks down yet, and they’ve never failed us. 
I’m going to get my bus over that damned ditch 
or bust.” 

The morning of September 27 was ideal for an 
attack. The weather was dry, with a slight mist — 
not too thick to prevent movement, but just thick 
enough to spoil the chance of the German gunners 
in their efforts to knock out the Tanks. 

The capture of the German outpost line west of 
The canal was rather a tame affair ; the various 
machine-gun posts gave a little trouble, but within 
an hour of the launching of the attack the Canadian 
infantry and the Tanks were lining up along the 
western bank of the canal. 

Here there was a pause of a few minutes for the 
organisation of the attack across the canal against 
the enemy positions where the strongest resistance 
was expected. Then the Tanks started off again, 
advanced gingerly to the edge of the yawning chasm, 
poised for a moment on the edge, and slithered down 
to the bottom, closely followed by the impetuous 
infantry. 

Would the Tanks be able to surmount the far 
bank? Looked at from below, the task appeared 
impossible, and the first Tank confirmed this im- 
pression by failing after less than fifteen feet. But 
other Tanks followed, and looking like great ants on a 
giant anthill they pushed up and up, until two-thirds 
of the height was won. Here there was a short strip 
of level, probably intended for a towing path. 


The Great Ditch 213 

A moment’s pause, and then up again the Tanks 
climbed. 

Now the leading Tank was within a few feet of 
the top, five seconds later it had topped the edge, 
followed immediately by the others. 

With a ringing cheer the Canadians scrambled up 
after them, and to the accompaniment of the crackle 
of the Tanks’ machine-guns dashed forward against 
the main German positions, and the day was won. 

Little remains to be told, but we have it from 
a German officer that this feat of the Tanks in sur- 
mounting what was thought to be a complete obstacle 
came as a thunderbolt to the enemy, who thought 
themselves secure against these death - dealing 
Juggernauts. 

With the loss of the Canal du Nord position the 
fall of Cambrai became inevitable, and from that day 
the result of the War was never again in doubt. 


Printed by 

Cassbll & Company, Limited, La Belle Sauyage, 
London, E.C.4 
F 35 4 I 9 








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